


Thrice Welcome

by Lestenna



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Female Bilbo Baggins, Self-Indulgent, Slow Burn, Write the Fic You Want to Read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2019-09-25 05:47:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 157,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17115593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestenna/pseuds/Lestenna
Summary: Thranduil was there at the Siege of Barad-dûr during the War of the Last Alliance, the uncrowned king of his people after the fall of Oropher. He saw the ring cut from Sauron's hand, he saw the will of men fail, and he knew Elrond's lack of heart to force Isildur's hand. For all their loss and pain, Sauron lived on.2,900 years later, a hobbit, of all things, turns up in his halls, that same ring clutched in her slim fist as she sends a captive company of dwarves whizzing away down the Forest River to wake a dragon's fury, her too-familiar eyes staring back into his before she vanishes out from under his nose.Utterly shameless rewrite of The Hobbit and into LotR territory, because I wanted to read something that didn't exist. Slow burn as in paired-characters-don't-meet-until-probably-20-odd-chapters-in. Title updated 3/2/19.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Catch your breath babes, mama hasn't written fic since like 2008, and never on AO3 before. Legit though this is straight up just me going "Huh, there's not a lot of BIlbo/Thranduil, is there?" and then "Huh, imagine if X, Y, and Z?" And then a friend going "DO IT I WILL BETA IT GO GO GO".
> 
> And I did.
> 
> So yes. This is literally just self-love in the form of me writing what I wanted to read, and damn the reasons and logic behind it. I've yet to decide on a lot of things—who'll live, who'll die, other relationships, how close to book/movie/lore canon I'm keeping, etc.—but it's just fun to get started, isn't it?
> 
> Feel free to let me know your thoughts and feelings on this. I’ve got no idea what I’m doing, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
> 
> 3/2/19 - Cover image added!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely anxiouscrab, who is a treasure and very encouraging!

 

The Halls of Mandos echoed ever louder with the low murmurs of ten thousand thousand souls, collected over the Years and Ages to wait in ponderous repose for their rebirth, or the Dagor Dagorath and the unmaking and remaking of Arda. Miles of glittering tapestry muted the sound only slightly, the fabric set to rippling by the wind of some million sighs and the passage of endless souls. In and out of the halls passed only very few of those who dwelt within—those living elves who had never left the shores of Aman beyond their first landings there, and those who had come later over the seas and the Straight Road when the weight of the ages of the world proved too much to bear up under any more. Few indeed were the number of spirits that drifted from the hall and out across the plains and rivers and forests of Valinor.

In time the waiting spirits within would be reborn, reincarnated into bodies identical to those first crafted for them by the Valar, and sent out to dwell among their fellows within Valinor, in Alqualondë and in Tirion, and in the other beautiful places of that land, though in the time since the Downfall of Númenor near the end of the Second Age, passage back to Middle Earth was denied to those elves who set foot upon the Undying Lands—a law that few if any, having seen the glories of Valinor, would seek to overcome.

For those among the elves who had committed such foul treason as kinslaying, and those that held no love for those remaining in the living world, rebirth was a slow thing in coming, and for some to be withheld until the remaking of the world. For others, those so grievously wounded in life, or laid low by the ravages of centuries and eons of sorrows, the offer to come again in physical form could be denied, and that restful state of disembodiment prolonged, so long as they dwelt within the Far West. Such a fate was rare, but not unheard of, for the elves of Middle Earth had suffered long and in numbers over the Ages at the hands of Melkor and his servants, and the Valar had pity, and could not force a one among them to retake their forms should they not wish it so.

Among those who languished as _fëar_ , as purely spiritual forms with no bodies, was one who sought at last to see more of Valinor than the tapestried, murmuring halls of Mandos' domain. The history of the world played out upon those woven walls for all to see, each great deed recorded as it happened, but in its own way that too was draining. She had died half an age ago, and with her dying words forsook any future life within a body that could know such pain. To watch from afar as Middle Earth suffered, and Men and Dwarves and Elves were born and died in war after war…

She fled the Halls of Mandos as spring came to the mortal world, across the Plains of Valinor (though she skirted the city of Valmar) and the Neverfading Lawns, and through the Gardens of Vána. Within Lórien she found at last a shadow of the rest she sought, lying down as Míriel, the first wife of Finwë, first high king of the Ñoldor, had done in the Years of the Trees so long ago beside those same glittering fountains. For months the spirit drowsed, soothed by the singing of nightingales and the scent of ever-blooming dusk blossoms.

At last as summer began to wax in those mortal realms of Arda she stirred and rose, bidding the silvered willows and faceted lakes a fond farewell for the solace they had given to her wounded and wearied _fëa_. On and into the Pastures of Yavanna at last she came, thinking now to see herself all of Valinor before returning to the Halls of Waiting. Sibling in nature to the Gardens of Vána, the Pastures were less tempered and more wild, and it stirred the spirit's heart to see them, for in life she had been of the Sindar elves, the Grey elves, and took more joy in the world's natural wonders than in the guided, sculpted gardens that so pleased some of the other clans of the Eldar.

Therein she wandered for a further time, in awe and wonder, and later joy upon the discovery of the spirits of Yavanna's Second-born deep within the Vala's land. Some, like her, had come at the end of their mortal lives upon Middle Earth to dwell at their maker's side, and others, less sure in form, but brighter and with ever increasing energy, lay yet waiting to be born. Those spirits she found nestled among the growing things, tended only barely by the souls of their ancestors, and seemed half tamed, half wild in their nature (though as those spirits made ready to be born into Middle Earth they did happen to settle, to better fit the expectations of their mortal parents).

One such spirit swiftly won the heart of the elf- _fëa_ , for even as it grew it remained restless, wild and vibrant as few within the Pastures did. Its light was a pale greenish-gold, as with all the rest, but it shook and shuddered within its leafy nest as if it could simply not wait to go and be born. To see such joy for life as had long gone out of her own _fëa_ , and that restless, wild nature that seemed as a sister to her own heart? It called to the _fëa_ that sat nearby day after day to watch it grow, and she found herself content to reside in the Pastures of Yavanna until at least such time as the spirit departed to Middle Earth, where she could and would not go.

As summer at last ended and autumn crept in, and August gave way to September, there came a day where by whim or by fate, the _fëa_ came even closer to the budding spirit, and reached out unknowingly and unthinkingly to touch it, her own golden light mingling with the paler, greener glow...and then swirling, speeding into the unborn spirit and mixing, and she cried out, for she could not pull her touch back.

Like a thirsty plant, the growing spirit drank in the energy and light of the _fëa_ , the light of the undying flame that Eru Ilúvatar had lit within all living things. For the light shone forth brighter in the _fëa_ of men and especially elves, being the second and firstborn of Eru, and less luminously within dwarves and ents and all that came later, Eru's adopted children which had been sparked first by the touch of the Valar, and not Eru directly. With a strange, shuddering pulling did fragments of the elf's _fëa_ depart from herself to mingle with that of the growing spirit, increasing its pulse and glow, until in a burst of radiance it flared as a sun, and then vanished, departing down from Valinor to the mortal realm.

In the spirit's wake, the elf Mindonel's _fëa_ was cast down against the soft grass of the Pastures, reeling but unharmed as that small part of herself that had gone into the young spirit drifted further, further, yet further away, until the connection was barely notable as the faintest of threads strung across the stars towards Middle Earth. Back through that gossamer strand Mindonel paused in gathering herself to hear the sound of warm chuckling that faded, at last, into the hearty but tender wail of a child's first cry.

* * *

In the west of Middle Earth, at the heart of the Shire, from within a smial nestled snug under The Hill in the middle of Hobbiton, a babe's cry rang out like a peal of laughter. The date was the 8th of September, 1290 by Shire Reckoning, and though the babe had come slightly early, there could be no doubt: Bilba Baggins, the daughter of Belladonna and Bungo Baggins, was born alive and well.

* * *

Out across the lands of Eriador, over the Misty Mountains and the rushing Anduin, and deep into the darkness of northern Mirkwood—like an arrow loosed from a bow sprang a lance into the very soul of the woodland king. Those strange elven dreams that count for sleep among the firstborn of Ilúvitar, half waking and half wandering, were shattered like a skin of ice over a deep lake, plunging Thranduil with a gasp back into the waking world. Slender fingers gripped the silken fabric over his heart, the constant ache that had wound about it for near a thousand years gently slackening...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fëa/fëar - soul, spirit (singular, plural, respectively)  
> Hröa/hröar - body, the physical house of the fëa
> 
> Míriel - the first wife of Finwë, the first high king of the Ñoldor; she exhausted herself in childbirth, putting too much of her life essence into Fëanor. She came to Valinor and lay down in the Gardens of Lórien to let her fëa depart her body. Finwë, wanting more children, asked the Valar to remarry. They eventually granted his plea, laying down the laws for elvish remarriage.
> 
> Shire reckoning - The Shire was founded in TA1601, so to find the common year, simply add 1600 to any Shire reckoning year, and taadaa! For example, Bilba's birthday is SR1290 + 1600 = 2890 (of the Third Age).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief look at Bilba's childhood, and the days before a certain Company comes to dinner and turns her life upside down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely anxiouscrab, who is a treasure and very encouraging!

**_TA2888 (1288, Shire Reckoning)_ **

_Bungo Baggins was in love._

_Bungo Baggins was in love, and that made even the long hours toiling beneath the earth worth every moment. The sweat, the tears, and the utterly ridiculous amount of dirt to be moved as he labored to carve out the perfect smial for his Belladonna, all worth it!_

_He’d begun the laborious task some months ago, though later than he’d liked, and only once he’d at last managed to win Belladonna Took’s favor enough to feel sure of himself. For though Bungo was in love, he was also a Baggins, and even such things as building new smials ran just a bit too near to an adventure than most Baggins would like to be involved with._

_Now the time was drawing near. Weeks and months of shifting earth had finally come down to this last room left to be emptied—the second pantry, of course—and then...more work! There was paneling to place and tile to lay, and so very much to be done before it was ready. And Bungo, for all his placid and steady nature, was not content to wait idly by in this case._

_Belladonna’s feet were ever itching for the road, after all, and should he miss his chance before she left again, there was no telling how long he’d be left waiting to ask for her hand beneath the Party Tree!_

_So he dug, and dug, and dug some more, feeling very rather like a dwarf in the process. It would have been faster to hire hands on, but no. No, this he would do for his Belladonna with his own strength and abilities, even if it took ten more winters to finish it!_

_In dumping out one load of the cut and crumbled earth, a glint of light caught on something certainly far more lovely than brown dirt, and bid young Bungo pause in his efforts, if only for a little while. Up onto the pile of loose earth he climbed, broad bare feet ever steady even as it shifted and packed below him, to reach out with nimble fingers and pluck it up._

_“Well, how very lovely!” He considered to himself, turning the palm-sized object this way and that. Beneath the clinging skin of muddy soil glittered flashes of silver and gold (though it seemed to Bungo, for all his lack of knowledge, that metal ought to be heavier than this seemed!). He scuffed at the pin, or broach, whatever it might be, swiping the dust of ages from it to have a better look. “Very lovely indeed…” It was flatter at one end, broad like a leaf on a long stem of twisted metal, shockingly unmarred for how long it must have lay beneath the earth. Small, simple white gems flecked along one side where the neck of the thing was, nearly glowing in the sunlight once exposed._

_It seemed strange in design, certainly nothing like a hobbit would make, though perhaps it was dwarvish. Bungo had never met a dwarf, or an elf for that matter, and had little interest in doing so… But perhaps, the thought came to him, it might make a fine gift for Belladonna. She certainly had a fondness for those odd Big Folk enough to turn her fancy to unusual stylings. Well, once the thing (which he’d decided must be some sort of hair pin) was cleaned up and polished bright. There’d be no dirty gifts for his Belladonna!_

_...Then again, she probably wouldn’t mind if it were dirty, if it’d come out of some treasure trove and not his smial-to-be._

_“Botheration...I’ve lost near a quarter hour, surely!” Remembering abruptly his purpose, Bungo stuffed the treasure deep into one pocket of his vest before turning about and ducking back into the raw earthen entry into the side of The Hill, his hands wringing over lost time as he set back to work and already forgetting his vexation over the extraordinary find._

* * *

_**TA2890 (1290 Shire Reckoning) - TA2941  (1341 Shire Reckoning)** _

“Oh but she’s just beautiful!” Belladonna, still drenched in sweat and propped up against the bed’s headboard, cooed as she clutched the rosy-cheeked babe to her. The labor had come on swiftly and without preamble, and Bungo had barely had time to fetch the midwife before there she was! Young Bilba, and hadn’t that been a surprise atop a surprise? All through the carrying the midwives and healers of the Shire had proclaimed far and wide, with the utmost confidence, that Belladonna would be having a boy!

And now? Well, now the name ‘Bilba’ would have to do, as both of her parents had been so similarly assured as to have only planned for one name—Bilbo, which really rather suited a boy more than a girl.

Despite the shock of being parents so suddenly, both Bungo and his wife were soon enamored of their darling girl. Her cries had quickly subsided into a rather solemn staring back at her parents after she’d been named and swaddled tight, and what a delight to see such bright curiosity in their child! The tiny babe had what Bungo insisted was her mother’s bright spark of wit in her pale eyes (which was itself not so unusual among infants, even when both parents had darker hues) and she seemed to take in everything with a sort of bemused confusion, as if she thought she ought to be somewhere else, and couldn’t quite figure on how she’d ended up here instead.

A few tufts of pale honey hair capped her head above already pointed ears, and if those ears seemed a touch more long and slender than usual, surely it was only because she hadn’t yet the curls to tuck behind and around them! She was light for a babe as well, but the midwife shrugged that off as perhaps having to do with her modestly premature arrival into life, and no doubt she would plump up like any good hobbit child within the coming weeks and months.

And of course to Bungo and Belladonna there was no finer child, not Under the Hill or Over the Hill or Across the Water. She was their Bilba, and she was exactly as she was always meant to be.

In the coming years they would find young Bilba to be a precocious thing, quick to walk and quicker to speak, and all too soon it was all the young couple could do to keep her from exploring every nook and cranny of the Shire, and they’d all but forgotten their wish to have more children with the sheer energy it took to mind their brilliant sprout. And if her stature was a bit slow to grow to match, well, that was alright. They had little trouble convincing the lass to partake in the many meals hobbits are so fond of, but when she remained slimmer than most they begged the doctors for a reason why.

“Sometimes it just takes a bit longer,” he’d said, doing all he could to console the couple, and shook his head. Rather unhobbity, that was, for a child to remain sleek and slim so long, but Bilba was in perfect health otherwise, coming into her feet and nose, and in time they were all sure she would round out a bit more properly.

By the time she was old enough to roam the Shire alone (or at least within a pack of fauntlings, as was common in the safe hills of Hobbiton) Bilba had gained at least some girth, which pleased her parents even if she was still the thinnest of the flock. The tallest too, or almost, for her age, though not so tall as to be unusual. She was not so different as to stand out amid the brood, and in behavior was just as cheerfully wild as any faunt, though perhaps more adept at finding mushrooms or snatching tomatoes from other people’s gardens, and certainly more prone to wandering the eastern edge of Hobbiton, a bit too near to the Old Forest if anyone asked Bungo about it.

Additionally she was swift with a flung stone, and unerringly accurate. By the time she was halfway to her majority, birds would take wing at merely the sight of her bending to scoop up a stone from the dirt. Such sport was usual and common among faunts and young adult hobbits—and no one would say no to a hot pigeon pie, shared with a beamingly proud tween who’d provided the birds herself. She never wasted the birds she clipped on the wing, nor did she throw stones at younger faunts or the farmers’ dogs, but when it came to conkers she was utterly ruthless, and invariably victorious.

Within a few years of her birth it became clear that the unusual blue paleness of Bilba’s eyes would not be fading to match her parents’ brown any time soon. This caused some brief unrest within the walls of Bag End—not out of any fear of infidelity, mind, but simply because no respectable Bagginses had anything _but_ solid, earthy brown eyes. Still, her mother declared they were fetching, and Bungo had to agree once the Old Took chimed in that she would be a beauty for all the Shire to delight in come her majority, with eyes like the clearest summer day.

Eventually her curls did come in thick as well, in a riot of spun honey, though they had a tendency to fade to paler wheat shades by the end of summer. And, just as her parents had been promised, they made her ears look not quite so long and slender, and soon enough they forgot entirely that they’d ever thought them other than exactly the proper hobbit ears. She let her hair grow long, though often would pull or braid it for the numerous parties held across the Shire. Such wild tangles were not kind when it came to braiding, but she did try, especially once she began to come home more and more often with twigs and mud in her curls after her ‘adventures’ hunting for elves in the forest or digging for dwarves in the mud.

She had many such adventures as a child, to her mother’s delight and her father’s consternation. She begged night after night to hear stories of her mother’s travels, but so too did she wheedle at her father’s desk for quick-witted jokes, and riddles she would spend hours at a time picking apart and trying to come up with just the right answer to.

Together her own adventures and these tales and tests of the mind made Bilba’s dreams the most unusual sort. She dreamed all the usual things, of cakes and third suppers, of sunny days and ribbons, but so too did she dream of...other things. Places she had never seen before, voices she’d never heard, and even other languages unknown to her (though it certainly spurred her on to accept her mother’s offer to teach her what Sindarin she knew, and to work very hard indeed to learn!) drifted through her unconscious mind as she lay snug in her bed at Bag End. She raced across fields and climbed mountains, and danced beneath the moon in forest clearings, as free as the wind in her dreams.

And sometimes too she had nightmares, especially of spiders and shadows and dragon-fire, but they were few and far between, and her parents were always and ever there to comfort her when she woke up weeping, as if she’d just lost the greatest treasure in all the world, and couldn’t remember what it was that it had been.

Together the three Bagginses of Bag End made a delightful and happy, if small, family. No one in the Shire could be said to have wished ill will upon them, and they were welcome, to a one, wherever they went. They held some of the best parties, and never left anyone out, and could always, _always_ be counted upon to lend a helping hand when it was needed.

And that was exactly what led to trouble for the family, late into one unusually fierce winter just after Bilba had turned twenty-one.

Oh, it’s true that the family made it through the Fell Winter intact, but Bungo’s health suffered in the latter half of the winter after being caught out overnight in the snow and wind, after hearing that one of the Bolger families down the lane from The Hill had come up short of firewood, and both parents were too weak with hunger and cold to fetch it. Old Bungo had set the family up right and proper, and even given them some of the Bagginses food from their second pantry (which was not yet quite down to bare bones), but the howling of wolves had cut off his retreat back to his family’s smial. He’d taken refuge within the abandoned smithy building, but it had been a foul night all around, with Belladonna and Bilba worried sick, and Bungo near to freezing by the time the wolves turned their hunt elsewhere and he was able to creep back to Bag End.

He took sick often in the years thereafter, and frequently ran short of breath and energy when a gentle-hobbit of his age normally would not, but he mustered on for another fourteen years before finally passing into Yavanna’s Green Gardens. Bilba had come into her majority just three years earlier, and though her pain was sharp at his loss, it was nothing compared to how her mother began to fade. Belladonna and Bungo had had one of the truest loves in the Shire, and though she wasn’t _really_ fading, not like the stories claimed elves could do, she slowed down. Lost her luster. She had Bilba, of course, and together they had many many more happy days, but eventually, in Bilba’s 44th year, she too passed on to join Bungo under Yavanna’s care.

And that was the end of Bilba’s adventurous days. She’d given up digging for dwarven treasure with her majority, but Belladonna’s passing changed the spirit of the lass. What good were stories when there was no one to share them with? Her heart still ached to see the world, and even more so now, with nothing but dust and ghosts to keep company with in Bag End, but she couldn’t bring herself to abandon the home her father had built, in love, for her mother. Nor to let their businesses fail, or the name Baggins tarnish with any lack of respectability.

With a heavy heart she packed away her rambling clothes, and donned the finer fabrics more fit for a Master of Bag End. Her mother’s hairpin, a gift from Bungo along with Bag End, became a fixture in her hair, and she likened the twining gold and silver of the gleaming leaves to the hearts of her dearly departed parents—Bungo the stronger, but subtler silver, and Belladonna the warmer, more expressive gold. She would reach up on occasion to run a finger along the edge of the leaves, and take a moment to smile and think of them when her heart grew weary, but soon enough she settled firmly into the role of a proper hobbity mistress.

Around about the time she turned fifty, her main remaining point of oddness was her clear disinterest in shedding her status of spinster—any young eager hobbit who'd approached her with an offer since her majority had received little but a patient smile, and a strange gleam in her eye as she directed them right back down the lane, thank-you-very-much, and she didn't have to tell herself that she was happy in the role, because none of them had felt right, after all.

By the time an old grey wizard came wandering up to lean on her gate, chuckling to himself at the sight of her quickly tapping out her pipe (and blushing to have been caught smoking in public as she gardened like some Bracegirdle!), she’d all but forgotten that she’d ever been anything but a true Baggins of Bag End for every one of her fifty years.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely anxiouscrab, who is a treasure and very encouraging!

_**TA1975**_

_The statue they’d erected looked nothing like her. She was the wind that moved the leaves of the trees, the flicker of light, dappling to the forest floor, the river’s noise, both gentle whisper and commanding torrent. The light of the stars shone forth from her eyes, and the way one corner of her mouth curled ever so slightly higher when she’d tried to hide a smile had never failed to make his heart stutter in his chest, not once in the two millennium he’d known her._

_The statue they’d erected looked nothing like her. It captured none of her quiet grace, of the delicacy of her soul, so bright but fragile, like dew caught at the edge of a flower’s petal: quick to burn away in direct light, but when guarded and hoarded, shimmering with silent promise and sweet life. She had been the gentlest woman he had ever known—too gentle, but he had loved her for it._

_The statue they’d erected looked nothing like her, or perhaps it looked too much like her. There, poised at the entrance to the forest road, as she’d stood sentinel over the strange and deep paths to his heart, and as cold and unmoving as she was now, beneath the earth. Never again to stand at his side. Never again to dance in the firelight of their revels. Never to smile for him alone._

_Not even there, in the far West, would he find her when he came at last to that far kingdom. Not as more than a disembodied fëa that would linger eternally within the Halls of Mandos, until the Second Music of the Ainur rang out over Arda. So great had been her agony in passing as to beg him to release her, to forsake all return to physical form, even under the watchful eye of the Valar, in a land where pain and fear were rare indeed. For that choice he could not blame her—his own wounds raged with heat even now, a half century later, and never would they cease to do so. The dark magics of dragon-fire, that flame given to them by Melkor himself, strong enough to even sunder the natural vigor and magic that surged within the immortal bodies of Eru’s firstborn, had stolen her life, and the the better part of his sight…_

_Perhaps, Thranduil Oropherion lamented as he turned to lead the mourning procession back into the forest, that was why the statue bore so little resemblance to his Mindonel. Not that it had been carved poorly, but simply that, in a final act of righteous justice against his failure once again to protect those he held most dear, the Valar had cursed his eyes to never again behold her beauty, nor to see the light of Arda’s stars glowing from within his beloved’s face, and that had hung in her hair and on her lashes._

* * *

_**TA2890, September 8th** _

Thranduil fought to catch his breath, a great rushing sigh coursing through him as he lurched upright. Faintly, so low a whisper that not even those with an elf’s keen hearing could perceive it, he let slip a cry into the still night air. Slender fingers pressed, ground, twisted against the flesh of his chest over his heart through the fine silk fabrics that covered him. His pale blue eyes, gone wide with confusion and sudden wakefulness, winced shut as another jangling pulse thundered through him, ripping a louder, shuddering exhalation from his throat. The sensation seemed to rise and then settle like a molten wave that had crashed and broken into mist to drip and cling to every facet of his soul—and it was not pain that rode that wave, nor loss or fear, and _that_ was had struck him most about it.

No hour of his life, waking or in dreams, had been free of pain since he’d felt his wife’s soul blaze white hot where it twined and merged with his; seared by the flames of one of the serpents of the north, her death had been slow and wretched, unfit for one so full of life and light. He had shared in her agony, and worse as he’d felt her pass beyond his reach, through the veil of death to Mandos’ Halls to leave only a gaping raw sense of loss behind—for she would never return to him, despite the depth of their once-shared love, even after his own days on Middle Earth had ended. So violent and ruinous had been her fate...

He had carried those wounds, that bitter _lack_ within him day by day thereafter. Not time nor mortal comforts nor the company and love of his people could hold back the constant throb of his heart, that unending, unforgiving reminder of what he’d had and lost. It had in turn made him colder, more bitter, and more greedy with those things he still could claim as his own...but now what had happened? What strange and unknowable thing had begun?

The Elvenking trembled, strong shoulders hunching and body curling slightly in upon itself as a third and final jolt shook him as illness would shake a fevered mortal man. It settled into the nooks and gullies of his rent soul, leaving behind a curious glazing lightness. His heart was not suddenly whole again, but… With a moment’s focus he could still trace the shape and depth of those old gouges, now sunk like an ancient cracked riverbed beneath the placid surface of...what? An odd balm, he knew not from where it had come. It did not quite cure, but left softened and rounded what had previously been jagged and razor shards that otherwise would prick and pierce and slice him so.

He did not stumble to his feet, for even in the grip of madness (which surely this must be, if that tormentous yearning had in the least subsided) he was too graceful; up he rose, and with an arm outstretched as if he were truly blind, he grasped towards the wide and shallow basin of water that served as a mirror, perched atop a white stone plinth. Perhaps, the thought sprang unbidden, he had at last begun to fade. His son was an elf grown, though surely… He’d thought to do more, _meant_ to do more…!

But no. There in the water’s reflection was mirrored his face, as vital and clear of the fog of those near to passing as it had always been. An infinitesimal widening of the eyes, a hint of panicked whites around the edges, and the faintest line between his brows were the only markers of something being amiss. For a long moment he regarded himself through the unbound tumble of his waterfall of pale hair, knuckles gone white where he gripped the edge of the bowl with enough intensity at last to shake it, sending ripples careening across the surface. His breath was rushing still, though silent, and it took a moment more to feel it begin to slow, and along with it went the faint hammering of his heart and the blood speeding in his ears.

With a rush of spurtive motion, he thrust a hand into the basin. He scooped at the water and lifted his fingers to trace cool lines along his brow and down to drip along his neck. His breath caught, one, two, and then puffed out in an aching sigh as he pushed himself back away from the bowl. He suddenly felt _invigorated_. A boundless energy flowing from within at a pace he hadn’t felt since…

“ **No.** She is dead, and gone from this world. Gone from me until Laurelin and Telperion bloom again,” The words flecked from his mouth like poison, a bitter twist at the fate decreed by the Valar, and Eru above. The knowledge of that separation brought with it the familiar sting of sorrow...but then it gentled, mellowing from the consuming sense of loss to something far more tender. A sort of warm distant fondness, as if, perhaps, she were not _gone_ , merely _gone away_ , for a time. As if, should he only find the way, he could _go_ to her...or to someone. As if where before his heart had only stirred to one voice, now there might be an—

“—It cannot be…!” he hissed. “ _An gell nîn, û!_ ” He could no longer contain the rush of energy, and set off with quick long strides across his rooms towards the balcony. “She is **gone** !” A swirl of sheer fabric caught the wind of his wake, the hanging gossamer curtains wisping out from where he passed into the open night air of the forest. With flashing, frightful eyes he cast about the wood for any sign that something, anything was wrong. “I have lost her, and there is **no other** ! There must be a reason _why_ …” His voice, though low in the silence, cracked on the last word.

Out across the forest of Mirkwood, all was still. No shadow crept nor spider slunk within his domain. A gentle breeze swept across the canopies from the west, setting the leaves to rustling softly. Bathed in pale moonlight, for a moment Thranduil could almost imagine he had stepped back in time an Age and a day, and that this was yet the Greenwood, and not Mirkwood. The lingering, burning pain he carried had banked to a low flame, no brighter than a hearth fire, where usually it raged as an inferno...but Mindonel yet languished beyond the veil of death, sundered from him, and no elf but Finwë, that most ancient of High Kings of the Ñoldor, had ever loved a second time.

“Why…?” He was not fading—he felt more alive than he had in some hundreds of years! He raised his right hand, watching as the moon reflected across the thin golden band that wrapped around the base of his index finger. Often it lay hidden beneath a larger ring, a tangle of silver, for elves had no need of such symbols to know they were—or had been—bound to another...but he kept it still, and knew it was there. “If she is not come again, and I remain **alone** …” His hand curled into a fist, clutched to his chest. His left hand folded over it, cradled it, lightly twisting the loop of metal round and round his finger. “What has become of me…?”

He should _weep_ for her loss.

He should _burn_ with shame at his failure. He should carry the burden of isolation eternally, his own penance for his part in her death! He should rage against the forces of darkness that had sundered them in life, and stolen the ages and eons from what could have been _theirs!!_

The band felt warm beneath his fingers, which slipped, and he twisted the flesh above it sharply by mistake. A flash of light behind his eyes blazed, for that physical pain was now, somehow, the greater of all those he felt, and on the heels of that revelation came a cold fury with himself.

“Have I become so broken as to sever myself from even the memory of her? Is that to be my punishment, to wither, **alone** , until the ending of Arda? _Amarth faeg!!_ ”

Across the forest’s crown, the once-still air whipped into a fury, a storm that would rip branches free and splinter ancient trees. Mirkwood mirrored the heart of its king, and it had been thrown into a maelstrom as he grappled with the singular change that had come over him, and with the violent burst of contempt for self that it had brought.

His fingers grasped and wrenched, freeing the golden band from its seat of old, fixing it with a searching blue stare. “If my heart has given up all love for her, then who am I to deserve to wear her gifts?!” His arm wrenched back, bent to arc the ring he found himself so unworthy of into the forest...and then paused.

There. _There._ The faintest of touches, of vibrations across a distance so great as to be unknowable, flying to brush against his soul. With it came the burn and pain he had become so intimately attuned to—but then it changed again. As if a second note was being played, to turn the first from solemn wail into a tender chord. In a breath it stilled his self-centered wrath, and flowed forth with a deep and abiding feeling of loving, and being loved.

Before he could process either, or what they might mean, the two merged into one pure sound, two voices rising and falling in tandem, before at last the first went still, seeming to fuel the second to greater heights, and then burst like a bubble of laughter.

Thranduil’s arm dropped, slack to his side.

Another? A _second?_ It was all but unheard of, and he...he wasn’t...he couldn’t…!

A sharp _ting!_ rang out against the muted roar of the wood and the storm as the gold band fell to bounce against the carved stone terrace. It rolled a lazy circle before falling to one side, shimmering with the reflection of the Elvenking’s tears—be they of joy or sorrow—as it came to rest beside his boot, and the skies above opened to weep down a cold and biting rain.

* * *

The next morning dawned cool and somber across the forests of Mirkwood. What light filtered down to the ground was harsh and as sharp as steel, carving into the shadows with a vengeance. And there in still silence it revealed the wreckage the storm had wrought all through the depths of night.

Great limbs lay bared, twisted branches caught to drag and rip against their neighbors. Webs of vines and fibrous stems barred familiar paths and roads, so thick and tough as to require chopping before they could be cleared away. Huge trees which had stood for centuries had been split and shattered, some by lightning (and a collective breath of relief came upon the elves that found those trees, for the rain had been so heavy that not a one had sparked a fire) and others by wind, pulled up at the roots and left strewn about like a child’s toy.

From high atop his seat within his halls, Thranduil took accounting of the damage and destruction from each scout and soldier and citizen in turn. His fair face remained impassive, if attentive, as each came forth to speak, and though his orders for assistance were mindful and generous, more than one elf would leave the throne room feeling as if their king had not quite _seen_ them when he spoke. Not really, for all that he had at least heard them.

The storm had raged the night through, a chaotic and tempestuous thing, in tune with every surge of confusion and emotion he had given over to. At last, shortly before dawn he had managed to compose himself, and the clouds had begun to disperse.

It was a selfish and irresponsible thing to let himself be so consumed—there were more lives than Thranduil’s own at stake within the woodland realm and at the mercy of his whims—but how could he have been anything but? Even now, as he assured a Silvan elf that their lands would be seen to and repaired within the day, his mind was turned away, and inward. Like a tongue that sought to press and prod at a repaired tooth, expecting pain and finding little more than the memory of an ache, he searched his heart and soul.

What wounds there had been were now as scars—still present, never to fade, but no longer the open and raw torment they had been before. Like a field that had been overworked to exhaustion, and let lay fallow, all but abandoned and presumed to never again even be able to bloom… But now he found at last and unexpectedly the land renewed within him.

It seemed a blessing, but left him wary, and pained anew, for he had not ever dreamed nor hoped to be given reprieve from his lonesome fate. He had loved, did love his wife, for all that they would never again meet each other in this life or the next. The stinging bite of the empty place she’d left inside him had been a comfort in a way—all he’d had left of her, and a burden he had learned well to shoulder. Without even that of hers remaining, he felt her loss as if it were fresh.

That combined with the knowledge of how his fate was tied to that of his domain left him pensive, and cold to the spark of—what? hope? anticipation?—whatever it was that his heart now carried by its very nature. What need had he for another love? A second love? Even in her eternal absence, did he not still love she who had come first, been _his_ first, and intended only?

Thranduil shook from his thoughts long enough to realize that no more supplicants now stood before him, and that other than his guards he had been left quite alone. With eyes half seeing he rose, and with a gesture that was more automatic than intended, beckoned them to follow as he strode from the room, and from his halls, and from his palace, passing beneath the stone arch of the gates and into the mottled light of Mirkwood’s trees.

With hardening resolve he took in the sight of his people. Between the trees and across the river, they were hard at work to clear and repair the damage _he_ had wrought, their days, their plans, their lives deferred for _him_.

Why should he allow himself this chance at joy renewed, when he had failed _them_ so many times?

His arms folded precisely behind his back, posture ever as upright and proud as ever, and giving no hint of the scornful thoughts swirling behind his cold blue eyes.

What good was an unbound soul if this was the price? Had not his people lost enough over the years?

Sharp and metallic was the tang of guilt upon his tongue as he walked the clearing paths, a gentle touch tracing felled boughs and cracked trunks even as an iron grip wound round his emotions to keep them in check. His people called happy greetings as he passed, which he returned with silent nods—perhaps in their hearts they did not blame him, but his own self-blame was more than enough to leave him wishing to ignore their regards, unworthy as he was of them.

At last he came upon one of the fallen trees. Huge and ancient, it had stood for centuries against the slow creep of darkness. A number of elves were working to remove it from the way, but even with all their vigor they could not budge it.

Without hesitation Thranduil motioned his guards to join the effort, and then he too stepped up to grasp the split wood near where it had broken free. With an effort they at last were able to shift it from the path. As they lowered the log and released it, Thranduil felt a strange slickness to his palms, and looking down found them covered in greyish wood-rot from the heart of the tree, and which had been unnoticeable from the outside while the tree stood.

The rest of the elves set to congratulating themselves before moving on to the next bit of wreckage needing tended...but Thranduil turned back. Down into the core of the tree he stared—what had seemed a proud and solid pine, now laid bare, was riddled with rot and ruin. In truth it was a miracle that it had fallen when and how it had, and injured no one and destroyed little. Left unfelled, the tree would have poisoned those around it, furthering the spread of darkness that crept ever up from the south…

With sharp steps the Elvenking crossed back across the path to inspect the stump of the fallen pine, and there he felt his grip upon his heart shake and slip. For you see, the roots were dark and sick with hitherto unnoticed taint. But there, in the light of the opened canopy, the ring of sunshine now able to reach the ground for the old tree’s absence, he could see two or three green and hale saplings reaching up with verdant leaves with eager growing intent.

He reached out to stroke those leaves, feeling the hopeful life pulsing within, with more and more fervor as the darkness seeping from the stump slackened and stilled. In the days and months and years to come, that earnest new life would drive back the creeping darkness, would force away one small patch of the gloom that had come to reside in the Mirkwood.

As Thranduil traveled on through the wood that day, he saw the same scene again and again unfolding. Everywhere his heart’s tempest had raged, it had ripped out old growth. The plants had been dulled, deadened, darkened with malaise and foulness, and already in the wake of that ‘destruction’, fresh young life was surging forth. The forest in those places seemed not lessened, as had been his fear and shame, but revitalized. Renewed. Cleansed as if some poison had been drawn from a wound, at last giving it a chance to heal.

He retreated to his chambers within his halls with the sun’s setting, away from the feasts and revelries of his people. Long into the dark he stood upon that same balcony in ponderous and patient silence, his dark brows drawn tight and together over his seeking but unseeing eyes, as he let his mind wander again to those waking dreams of days long past, and now too, perhaps, days yet to come.

He had never meant to lose her. Never wanted to be parted from her. But she had been taken, and stolen away from him, never to return. He still raged at that loss, still hurt for her suffering...but now, perhaps, he had begun to find peace from it.

Maybe the slackening of the chains about his heart was not a punishment renewed, as he had first thought, but a reprieve.

Thranduil still hesitated to consider that he might find a second partner as Finwë had. He was not of that line, and had assumed that doom forbidden to him. Even had he wished it, such dreams were beyond his present will or care to reach for, and he held less love for the Valar than the Ñoldor did. He could not fathom that they would craft anew a soul to match his own; he, who had not even deserved the first.

For just a moment he dreamed again of that second rippling touch he had felt only the night before—so similar to _hers_ , a familiar caress, but not… No. He shook that dream off like an old coat, letting it break and scatter like dust in the breeze.

Even if there had come another to suit him, he knew not who or from where, or when—if ever—they might appear. He had not the luxury of seeking them out...nor the right. The darkness was ever pacing at the doorway to his lands, and threats surrounded his people on all fronts. He had not forgotten the prices paid by them for the selfish actions of the few—the actions of the Ñoldor, of Thingol, of Oropher, and even his own poor choices—and he would not set the needs and safety of his people aside again to chase an unpromised and undreamed of hope.

No, he decided as he lightly fingered the golden band that had been once more properly restored to his right hand, and then reached out to lift a silvered goblet filled with deep red wine to his lips. He would take the blessing that had been given as it was, and count himself lucky for that much. He would be a better king for it; no more would the forest’s decay be sped and aided by his own pained heart. He would, he resolved, not seek this or any new partner, but simply strive to better ensure his people’s welfare and safety, as he had had tried to do before.

He drained the goblet, savoring the full richness of the wine upon his tongue, and then reached to refill it from the pitcher that stood nearby for that exact purpose. This cupful he nursed the rest of the night through, leaving it unusually only half emptied by morning, as his thoughts strayed down brighter paths than they had known in half an Age, and towards kinder remembrances of his past and his family, of _her_ , and of Legolas. And, perhaps once or twice (against his self-sworn plans and promises), to wondering ‘what if’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurelin and Telperion - The Two Trees of the Valar, or The Two Trees of Valinor. Laurelin, the Gold Tree, and Telperion, the Silver Tree, brought light into the Land of the Valar in ancient times. They were destroyed by Melkor and Ungoliant, but their last fruit and flower were made by the Valar into the Sun and the Moon.
> 
> The (Second) Music of the Ainur - The Music of the Ainur was the great song of the Ainur that took place before Time began, from which Eä, the material Universe, was created. It sets forth the themes of Eru's plans for Arda, and all his creations' places in it. The Second Music of the Ainur is the great music the Ainur will make together with the Children of Ilúvatar before Ilúvatar after the End. The history of Arda is but a learning process towards it. "It will be more splendid than the first Music of the Ainur as the Children will participate, and every participant will fully understand their intent in their part and be in harmony with the others. Ilúvatar will give to them the Secret Fire and his themes shall take Being at the same time they are uttered." - The Silmarilion, "Ainulindalë: The Music of the Ainur"
> 
> Thranduil's golden ring - Elves exchange a set of rings when they are betrothed. At least a year later, when they are wed, they return their betrothal rings, and receive wedding rings that are worn on their index fingers. The married couple's parents also often gift a gem to their new son- or daughter-in-law.
> 
> "An gell nîn, û!" - "Please, no!" or "It can't be so!"  
> "Amarth faeg!" - "Cruel fate!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely anxiouscrab, who is a treasure and very encouraging!

**_TA2934 (1334 Shire Reckoning)_ **

_Bilba fought not to sigh, as with a gentle_ clink! _she set the writing quill back into its spot, balanced in the mouth of a jar of her best blue ink on one corner of the desk. It was a fine old desk, having once belonged to her father Bungo—all gentle angles and sloping curves through the legs, and not to mention the fine red wood and rich finish to it. She’d seen her father write hundreds of letters and contracts upon that dear old desk. Belladonna too, though from her had come far fewer of the latter, and far more of the former._

_Now the desk was hers, as was, with that very signature, the rest of her home. “A funny thought, that.” To think that the place you’d always thought of as your home was in fact **not** yours for lack of a few select sheets of paper and drops of ink. It was quickly set to rights, but that didn’t change the feelings that’d come from seeing ‘Bilba Baggins, Master of Bag End’ at the bottom of the deed. _

_She quickly folded the thick packet of paper, tucking it into the leather pouch it’d come in. She buckled shut the brass catch, which was stamped with a ‘T’ amid scrolling vines—T for Thain, or Took, whichever you liked, but a sure enough sign that the contents were official Hobbiton legal business. She’d send it off with the morning post and...and that’d be that._

_She lingered a while longer in the silent smial, sitting quietly at the desk in the study. She half expected to hear Belladonna’s light steps come down the hall to scold her for wasting such a lovely day sitting around inside when she could be having an adventure, as often she’d done when Bilba was a growing faunt. But no sound came. And no sound would ever come, now, with Belladonna having been buried a week ago beside her beloved Bungo. Bilba was young to become the head of the Baggins family, but securely into her majority...and certainly that had been what kept Belladonna here so long._

_Bilba couldn’t fault her mother for finally following her heart back to the Pastures of Yavanna... But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt to be left by herself beneath the silent earth, in a smial meant to burst with life that had gone as cold as an unlit hearth. As often she had done over the last days, she raised a hand to cover her heart through the dark fabric of her mourning dress._

_At some point in her youth she’d mentioned the warm, slightly drawing sensation she’d perpetually felt from within to her mother, expecting a plain answer. Belladonna, however, had had no idea what she’d been talking about. Neither had the Shire doctors, nor any of her Took relatives (though they were quick to mention that it sounded something like their own ‘itchy feet’ when wanting adventure, of course!) Odd as it had been, the constant fluttering beneath her breastbone had become a comfort to her over the years. It was such a lovely tender feeling._

_Even now the strange yearning warmth there lingered on, she could feel it just below her fingers, connecting her to...something… In the moments where she had felt the most alone in all of Arda, it seemed to pulse even stronger. With times like these… Well, the sensation grounded her, and she managed a faint smile in spite of her woes._

_A moment later she heard the front door bell, and recalled with a glance at the engagement calendar upon the wall that she was expecting company today, even if it was of an business-y nature._

_It seemed that neither time nor trade waited for a proper gentle hobbit’s grief, especially not for a Baggins of Bag End with business to tend to, and Bilba hurried out from the study to face the day, and her lessees._

* * *

**_TA2941 (1341 Shire Reckoning), April 27th_ **

In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell...though presently Bilba Baggins, Master of Bag End, would tell you plainly that it certainly smelled of _something_. That was a sign, if ever there was one, of how frazzled the poor Baggins had become following the day’s events and those of the afternoon before—to openly complain about company was simply Not Done in the Shire!

But you see, Gandalf the Grey had come seeking a lad or lass to whisk away on an adventure, and despite all of Bilba’s motions of disinterest, he had very well been interested in _her_. All of her attempts at rudeness had been in vain, for even with her bidding him “good morning” no less than three times, he’d made his mind up.

Now Bilba stood wringing her hands as the boisterous clatter of ten-and-two dwarves (and one wizard) set to turning her previously tranquil dining room upon its head. “Is there more? It’s very good!” Cried one, whom she felt sure she’d heard called Kili (or maybe that was Fili?) as he thrust out an empty platter towards her. It had previously held several slices of a fine roast from a day ago, and was still dripping with gravy and juices which ran ever closer and closer to the rim of the dish, threatening to drip off the edge.

“I’m, I’m sure I can come up with something, just—” She squeaked, but he’d already turned back to his fellows as soon as she’d taken the platter in hand, laughing uproariously at something another dwarf had said. _Botheration at this mess,_ she thought hotly to herself as she clutched the dish and sidled towards the door to the kitchen, pointedly ignoring when a freshly buttered roll went sailing overhead and into the mitts of yet another bearded fellow. _Some nerve, to come along uninvited, help themselves to my pantry AND my dinner, not to mention the state of my poor floors!_

Mud and drippings and bits of stamped-upon food had marred the wooden panels, and she’d only just cleaned them the day before! One of her ‘guests’ had chipped the entryway by dropping a handful of heavy weapons all over and off the mat, and she was already _sure_ her plumbing would simply never be the same.

“Oh!” She wailed quietly to herself as she dutifully (for even under duress, there never was a Baggins who was a bad host!) stacked slices and slabs of meat upon the platter to return to the dwarves. “This is all Gandalf’s fault! If I get him alone for a moment or two I’ll give him a piece of my mind!” Despite the threat’s heat, there was a strand of amusement to it as well—she’d been quite fond of the batty old wizard, once upon a time. Or at least she thought she had (the memories were quite well and faded by now).

Still, that did not excuse such unmitigated, boorish behavior of the lot presently carousing and squabbling and shouting in her smial, and she fumed to herself as she returned to the chaos. The platter was snagged by another of the dwarves (Gloin?) currently making themselves at home at her expense, and a cheer went up from the bunch as forks and knives began to fly with renewed vigor. That reaction was at least somewhat mollifying—good to know that they approved of her cooking, if nothing else!

With her guests thus distracted, she managed to slip about unnoticed to spear bits of buttered asparagus and quarters of roasted herbed potatoes with a fork, building herself a hurried plate to tuck away hopefully out of sight of the ravenous group in a corner of the kitchen. It was that, she’d decided rather stoically, or go hungry herself. She would not begrudge the dwarves the main of her culinary efforts, but there was no reason to starve herself either.

With her own portion secured, she hurried back into the fray, ducking wildly slung arms bearing tankards and mugs, and twisting around elbows that were thrust back from the armrests of their chairs with all the speed and force of a battering ram. The group now feasting in her dining room was easily as loud as any family gathering she’d been to within the last few years (those of the Tooks aside), and though it made her ears ring something fierce, she could not find it in herself to be wholly unhappy with the flush of raw _life_ that had come crashing into the normally silent Bag End.

“Why’ve they come, Gandalf? Aside from you promising them my dinner, and dessert besides, of course.” She’d sidled up around the edge of the room to stand at the wizard’s side, her hostess’ eye flicking to the level of wine in his glass and back up to his wizened old face, as if daring him to try to answer in any manner she’d find pleasing.

“A story best told when all are present, my dear girl.” Gandalf replied, the glitter of amusement in his eyes. “Besides, I’d say they’re just the sort of merry bunch you’ve needed to fill this smial. Your father built it to be a lively place, now, didn’t he?”

“I suppose, of course; only I wish that you’d _told_ me they were coming! Rather a nasty shock to realize how much they could eat. You’d almost think they were hobbits themselves!” She joked, doing her best to make light of the situation. Certainly she was a bit baffled with the turn her evening had taken, but it wasn’t the first time unexpected company’d come calling, nor would it be the last. And despite her Baggins side’s sense of distress, her Took half couldn’t help but marvel. Dwarves! Here! In Bag End! What Belladonna would have given for such a party back in her days!

No, watching them all, so happy to be together, and with good food and drink, in the bright warmth of her home...that felt rather right, the more she thought about it. Even if a moment later she was flinching against the sight of one of her mother’s best bowls being sent sailing carelessly from hand to hand around the ring of dwarves. They were _exactly_ like the fauntlings’ table at last year’s midsummer festival, with all their manners forgotten (or ignored) and a very real risk of sauce ending up in their hair. Though probably there was less of a chance of one of them ending the night hung by his belt loops off the party tree.

Perhaps they were just hobbity enough in that way to avoid any real ire from their hostess. It did help that she loved parties, even going so far as to imagine them, to dream of them in the occasional lull between festivals or birthdays. Parties all day long under the Party Tree, parties in the smials of friends; parties with hobbits, men, and dwarves, and elves… Parties under the stars, until dawn crept over the eastern trees, dancing beneath the moon, or with a partner. A partner who had felt so very dear to her, or would come to feel so loved, and—

“—I _said_ , Miss Baggins, that I should rather think you’d appreciate a bit of livening up around here.” She startled from her reverie to blink owlishly up at Gandalf. The twinkle in his eye seemed even brighter as he continued on, and Bilba hurried to brush off the cobwebs of whatever odd half-dream, half-fantasy had come wandering over her. “I recall yourself to be a rather adventurous sort as a faunt. What better excuse for an adventure than to have one thrust upon you?” He chuckled warmly, and with definite mischief as Bilba began to puff up, embarrassed at having been caught wool-gathering, and at being tricked into hosting this lot, and at being considered adventure-worthy. “And besides. I think it shall be very good for you. Yes, very good indeed, to see more of the world beyond your green door.”

She clicked her tongue at that, raising a brow at the wizard. “I go down to the market every Tuesday, I’ll have you know, and even as far as Bree and Buckland now and again, Gandalf,” she huffed, all but wagging a finger at him.

“My dear, I’m utterly sure that you _know_ that that is not quite what I mean.” The old wizard’s smile grew warmer, a deep fondness shining through. “Your mother would have rather seen you following in her own footsteps than remain here, cooped up, and, well…”

“And well _what_ , Gandalf? I do think I’d know my own mother’s mind better than you, seeing as how you’ve not crossed the Shire in at least some thirty-odd years!” She was well and truly ruffled now, though inwardly she couldn’t help but flinch slightly. Gandalf had the right of it, blast and confound him; her mother had always hoped her daughter would travel past the town of men at the edge of the Shire. Or even to see her make it to Rivendell, as she herself had done! Things had just become so frightfully busy after Belladonna’d gone, and it didn’t feel right to up and leave, and…

“Oh _Bilba_ ,” She felt the wizard’s hand come to rest upon her shoulder. The look upon his face instantly softened her, and she reached up to cover his much larger hand with her own, patting it apologetically. “She, as do I, simply know that you were meant for _more_ than a, a regular, quiet Shire life. I do hope you can trust me on that account at least.” His eyes, which had gone distant and sad at her chastising, lit again with a spark of amused knowledge and interest—the sly glow of a secret, some might call it, but why he’d gotten that look about him when considering _her_ was quite beyond Bilba. “Yes indeed, _much_ more, with all of that hopeful starlight in your eyes, and—”

_Thud thud thud!_

A harsh rapping at the door interrupted their moment, and the sudden silence as the company of dwarven guests (which she felt a prick of guilt over having ignored so long!) all turned towards the entryway left a sense of unease sweeping into Bilba’s heart.

“He is here.”

* * *

Bilba found out quite quickly that she did not care overmuch for Thorin Oakenshield. He was smug and superior, and he’d butted his way quite rudely into her home (and even though all the rest had done the same, there was just something particularly galling about it this time). “I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way—twice. I wouldn’t have found it at all had it not been for the mark on the door.”

And _that_ was another thing! Bilba’d turned from her vexations at the newcomer to regard Gandalf with a perfectly acid stare. Really? _Really?_ Of course he’d gone and marked it up... _phew_! She felt fit to spew steam from her ears, she did! And Gandalf, of course, all but ignored her building ire as he introduced the smug one. She offered her hand automatically, mumbling a terse “Bilba Baggins of Bag End, as you please,” though it seemed he pleased not much at all, as he scoffed and ignored the offered hand. Had she just been letting the daft old wizard butter her a moment ago up as well? And _this_ was who he’d brought to harry her with?! _Well_ , she would see about—

“So... This is the hobbit.”

That tone caught her attention, and she at last released Gandalf from her glare to glance around and back up into the dwarf’s sharp blue eyes. They were darker and richer than her own, but there was no mistaking the look in them as he took stock of her. It was one she had seen before, though perhaps to a lesser, if more knowing extent, from certain relatives and gossips among the hobbits who saw fit to cast judgement upon others as if it were a sport to perfect. “Tell me, Miss Baggins: have you done much fighting?”

Ohhh, so he _had_ gotten her name, even if he’d not had the decency to shake her hand. That, or she supposed, Gandalf had given it to him. “Pardon me, _fighting_?” She sniped back, giving the dwarf his own once over. “I spent a summer or two trailing along with the bounders near the edge of the Shire, but I don’t see why that’d be relevant.” In truth she’d only really been keen to see if any of the bounder-hobbits had interactions with the rangers, or even elves, and done no fighting or training—but she felt no compulsion to inform the dwarf of that.

“I thought as much,” Thorin feigned musing to himself—words still amply loud for all to hear, even if he’d pitched them softly. “She looks more fit to be plucking flowers than burglaring.” His lips, which had been cocked upwards in antagonistic amusement, suddenly turned down as he circled further ‘round her, zeroing in on the tips of her ears, or perhaps the pin nestled above in her hair. “She looks even more like an elf than most hobbits I’ve seen…!”

She couldn’t miss his sneer, nor the clear dismissal as he at last brushed past to join his company. Several of them seemed to be giving her considering glances, as if they’d not really seen the pointed ears or deft movements, despite the fact that such traits were the bread and butter of being a _hobbit_ , as well as of being an elf, and thank them all kindly for noticing it. Hadn’t they expected to find a burglar here? Someone, say, _quiet_ and _quick?_ She didn't now what her looks had to do with that, but, well, what did the opinions of a pack of dwarves rightly matter to her?! She managed not to cross her arms, but decided then and there that rather than handing over her secreted dinner plate to this _belated_ guest, she’d let him collect what scraps from the table he could find!

Gandalf, perhaps seeing the storm coming in the form of a small hobbit woman, intercepted with a swoosh of his robes and the reveal of a rather ancient map. He led the dwarf away from the fuming hobbit with a brief apologetic look back, before he himself settled in and unfolded the map atop her table before Thorin.

“Far over the east, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single, solitary peak...”

And so the quest, for a quest it seemed to be, was revealed to her. A lost kingdom, a princely treasure, a vagabond people...and a dragon. That thought sent a thrill of terrific fear shooting up her spine, though in the fuss the company kicked up, her sudden paleness went unnoticed. Of course, she reasoned to herself as she caught her breath some moments later, gripping the back of Thorin’s chair with white knuckles, any reasonable person with a lick of common sense would feel thus about a beast like that.

So, of course, the dwarves were thrilled at the idea of fighting the beast. _A taste of dwarvish iron up his jacksie? Really?_ Half the group seemed too old to consider joining such a fight, and the other half too young and inexperienced. And the idea that Gandalf had killed any dragons, let alone hundreds? Well, the humor of that idea chased the ice from her veins quick enough. Of course, that the dwarves seemed genuine in their intent and belief…

Gandalf had brought a troupe of brainless, bearded, bumbling brutes to her smial!

And before she could shake her head and resign herself to putting them up for the night and then putting them _out_ come morning, a key had been produced, a prophecy discussed, and a contract had been shoved into her hands. She took a moment to catch up, clutching the thick (which way was this meant to even fold?) contract to her chest as the kindly-looking elderly one, whom she thought was Balin, gestured for her to open it.

“It’s just the usual. Summary out-of-pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements and so forth,” He smiled as he said it, as if contracts involving _funeral arrangements_ were common, and weren’t simply horrifying.

“Cash on delivery,” Bilba read on, one corner of her mouth pinching in slightly as she reached up to graze her hairpin thoughtfully. What use had she for gold? She had all she’d ever need in the Shire, right now. “Present company shall not be liable for injuries inflicted by or sustained as a consequence thereof, including, but not limited to lacerations, evisceration...incineration…?”

The cold creeping along her spine had come back, and she startled as one of the dwarves—the hatted one, Bofur?—chimed in now. “Oh aye. He’ll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye!”

Balin, seeing how she immediately lost color, took a step closer. “Alright there, lass?”

“Hmm?” She felt the question curl up out of her, dazed and distant as if through a mist. Her eyes had slid from the contract to some middle-distance point up and over the frowning dwarf’s left shoulder.

“Think furnace with wings,” Bofur offered, as if that was much better a mental image. “Flash of light,” She could see it bearing down on her in her mind’s eye. “Searing pain,” The gaping jaws, the molten light, a sense of desperate fear. “Then poof! You’re nothing but a pile of ash.” The feel of her own body charring, twisting, melting in her armor, screaming as she fell, though still she turned to try to shield, to fall atop—

—with a strangled whimpering noise the Master of Bag End’s cornflower eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed in a heap upon the rug.

* * *

“I really am fine, Gandalf. I don’t know what came over me.” She’d woken sprawled atop the couch in the sitting room, the old fellow near at hand with a mug of strong minty tea. He’d given her a strange searching look as she’d sat up, but then she’d blinked and he was the same old kind (if pushy) wizard he’d ever been. It did feel a bit silly now to have fainted dead away just thinking about a dra...well, thinking about their quest.

She took a long pull from her tea as Gandalf set himself down nearby and launched into a tale about her great-great-great-great-uncle (which she was sure was at least half fabrication to suit his own purposes, the cad). “And you’ll have a tale or two to tell of your own when you come back, won’t you my dear?” He patted her knee reassuringly. Oh, he _so_ clearly thought he’d won her acceptance of this fool endeavor, didn’t he?

“Can you even promise that I _would_ come back Gandalf?” Her brows furrowed together as she peered up at him, searching his expression for any emotions that he might otherwise think to hide.

“No. And if you do...you will not be the same hobbit that leaves this place, I fear,” he finally admitted, and everything she saw in his eyes and the lines of his face made it clear that he believed it.

A moment passed, and she set her teacup aside. “Well. I thank you for being honest with me, Gandalf.” She sighed and shook her head, casting about the homely smial that had meant so much to her mother and father, littered with heirlooms and comforting slivers of her identity. “I do think you’ve the wrong hobbit though. I simply can’t sign this.” The clause she’d snagged upon before seemed to stare up at her from the unfolded pages. _Incineration…_ She fought to suppress the shudder. No, the quest was foolish enough, but the fear she had of that fate was undeniable, and strong.

And then before she could change her mind, or Gandalf try to wrangle her further, she pushed herself up and sped quickly down the hall, to tuck herself away in her room with the door almost-fully shut.

* * *

The noise of the smial had dwindled to silence after a time, and what light shone through the crack under the door faded to the harsh hot-and-cold of a midnight's banked hearth. Bilba had bundled herself off to bed, never even minding that she’d completely forgotten that she’d meant to sneak back to fetch her dinner plate, and lay still as death beneath the blankets. It was horribly rude to have not even helped make up the guest rooms or offer pillows to her guests but...she simply couldn’t be out among them at the moment.

Where had the strange and horrifying visions she’d had while reading the contract come from? They’d been terrifically real, and she shuddered as she pressed herself to the cool sheets, as if to reassure herself that even now, hours later and snug in her bed, she really was unburnt. True, she’d had dreams that seemed fantastical before, but this was something different, more vivid, and _worse_ it had come upon her while she was _awake_.

She rolled over, clutching at her feather pillow as she fought to shove the memory away. She was _not_ going, so it made no matter, she tried to affirm to herself.

Then through the crack of the door, along with the smoldering light came a song. Deep and rumbling, at first she mistook it for the grinding of the earth, before it rose and split into voices, like mountains thrusting up from the crust of the world at the beginning of time. It snared her, like a web of smoke and mist, drawing her in and lulling her all at once with its low melody.

 _Far over the misty mountains cold_  
_To dungeons deep and caverns old_  
_We must away ere break of day  
_ _To seek the pale enchanted gold._

  _The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,  
__While hammers fell like ringing bells  
__In places deep, where dark things sleep,  
__In hollow halls beneath the fells._

  _For ancient king and elvish lord  
__There many a gloaming golden hoard  
__They shaped and wrought, and light they caught  
__To hide in gems on hilt of sword._  

 _On silver necklaces they strung_  
_The flowering stars, on crowns they hung_  
_The dragon-fire, in twisted wire  
_ _They meshed the light of moon and sun._

  _Far over the misty mountains cold  
__To dungeons deep and caverns old  
__We must away, ere break of day,  
__To claim our long-forgotten gold._

  _Goblets they carved there for themselves  
__And harps of gold; where no man delves  
__There lay they long, and many a song  
__Was sung unheard by men or elves._

  _The pines were roaring on the height,  
__The winds were moaning in the night.  
__The fire was red, it flaming spread;  
__The trees like torches blazed with light,_

  _The bells were ringing in the dale  
__And men looked up with faces pale;  
__The dragon's ire more fierce than fire  
__Laid low their towers and houses frail._

  _The mountain smoked beneath the moon;  
__The dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom.  
__They fled their hall to dying fall  
__Beneath his feet, beneath the moon._

  _Far over the misty mountains grim  
__To dungeons deep and caverns dim  
__We must away, ere break of day,  
__To win our harps and gold from him!_

 

The music moved around and through her, and she could not help but catch the tune and hum along beneath her breath. And she felt the love of beautiful things, wonders made and yet unmade by skilled hands and clever minds, with great patience and greater love. To see the rivers of of the world, and rivers of gold; the glittering snow atop the peaks and shimmering gems of that distant hoard, and perhaps find value in their splendor if not their weight or worth. The sorrows of the dwarves were laid bare, and she felt, somehow, that she understood them.

Through the gap of the window curtains, which she could see from where she lay, the stars winked out from behind the clouds, bright and beckoning. ‘Come walk under us, and we will guide you true,’ she imagined they said, with a chime like bells. ‘See all we shine upon, and know the world beyond your door.’

If only it was a _sure_ thing! If only she could be both at once—Baggins and Took. Her heart felt pulled in two directions, and she did not know which road to follow. The ache the dwarves had sung into her bones spread and grew, and mingled with the ever-faint yearning that she had been born with, or been given by her parents’ tales and riddles, perhaps. But then too came the flash of the dragon’s fire, burning bright behind her eyes once more, and she twisted away from the door.

An age later, it seemed, sleep found her with tears wetting the pillow beneath her tumbled honey curls.

* * *

The morning dawned bright and quiet, and it was to the echo of her bare feet on the cool wooden floors that Bilba dared to brave the front rooms. The expected mess did not appear, but signs of her ‘guests’ still lingered here and there. Scuffs on the floor, a pile of ash where someone had tapped out a pipe in the hearth...and there, spread across the desk like some ominous and ugly table runner, the contract. Dark streaks of ink in black and red glared up at her from the creamy parchment, as stark as the silence after the previous night’s revels.

For a long, long moment she simply stood there, soaking in the peace. The stillness. The dead air caught fine motes of dust, suspending them in clouds where the light poured in through the windows, unmoved by breath or wind of motion. She could hear her own heartbeat, it was so still, and the rush of her lashes against her cheeks each time she blinked.

And then what had been tranquil became smothering. The hollow smial yawned around her like a cave, a tomb, and with a start Bilba realized her heart was racing as if she was being hunted within her own living room. The dark halls that stretched off either side became cold, all the warmth of her days with her parents leaching away as the life she’d felt there the night before had gave way to the ghosts of yesterday, come again to haunt her from every shaded corner. The silence rose to a deafening pitch, a single unbroken note of _nothing_ , until at last with a whimper she herself shattered it. And then she _ran_.

From room to room she flew, leaving cabinets tugged open and doors unlatched. Out the front door and down the road she went not five minutes later, her skirts swapped for travelling trousers and a pack thudding _thmp-thmp-thmp!_ against her back. Tangled hair still mussed from sleep and the contract’s flapping parchment both flew behind her like twin banners as she hopped the fence across the path and sped on, grinning like a fey thing as she passed stupefied friends and baffled neighbors. Her heart was hammering in her ears, her breath puffing faint clouds in the late-April cool of morning.

_She was going on an adventure!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Text of 'Far Over the Misty Mountains Cold' was lifted directly from the books. You can't improve upon perfection!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely anxiouscrab, who is a treasure and very encouraging!

 

**_TA2900 (1300 Shire Reckoning), June 15th_ **

_The magnolia tree two hills over from Bag End was in full bloom, and the early June breeze pushed leaves and petals about as it towed white clouds high across the summer-blue sky. Lithe was coming soon, and Midsummer’s Day a mere week away—and that was why Belladonna had insisted upon taking luncheon out under the blossoms. Bungo’d fallen back into the grass some time ago, his pipe drooping from his lips to bobble upon his chin (it was thankfully unlit) as he snored peacefully, a rumbling counterpart to the two voices weaving notes that drifted up to mix with birdsong on the wind._

_When Summer lies upon the world, and in a noon of gold_  
_Beneath the roof of sleeping leaves the dreams of trees unfold;_  
_When woodland halls are green and cool, and wind is in the West,_ _  
Come back to me! Come back to me, and say my land is best!_

 _When Summer warms the hanging fruit and burns the berry brown;_  
_When Straw is gold, and ear is white, and harvest comes to town;_  
_When honey spills, and apple swells, though wind be in the West,_ _  
I'll linger here beneath the Sun, because my land is best!_

_Belladonna wove flowers into a crown about her daughter’s head as they sang, first one and then the other. It was an old song they were singing, and brought to mind the image of trees serenading each other through its verses. A patient song, and hopeful, and Bilba’s voice carried the tune better than most for all of her nine years of age. Perhaps that was because her mother had filled her mind with walking songs and bath songs, and even one or two songs in Sindarin, ever since she was a baby. Once Bilba’d begun to talk, she’d begun to sing—quaint gibberish at first, but all the same._

_This song had been known in the Shire since time immemorial, though just where it’d come from had always been a bit of a mystery. It’d become quite popular at one point though, and still was a common choice for any party so long as it was held in spring or summer. With the Midsummer’s Day festival being one of the biggest events to be held in the hobbits’ year, it would certainly be struck up before long—a convenience, as it also was one of Bilba’s favorites, and one she’d been determined to be ready to sing along to as they celebrated._

_All faunts sang, of course, but it was more of an excited, exuberant shouting than proper song. Bilba had determined that now, at nine, she was a proper Grown Up Faunt, and that meant she should start taking these things more seriously. That determination spurred her into practicing, and_ **_lots_ ** _of it. Belladonna of course had been a more than willing tutor—she was not so skilled as to offer formal lessons, certainly not, but how could she deny her sweet blossom such a simple request?—and had always delighted in her daughter’s voice. Even when she’d been the type to shout her tunes, no one could say that Bilba didn’t do a pretty job of it._

_Belladonna let Bilba take the lead, her own words fading to humming as she focused further on the flower crown she’d started. There were only a few verses left, after all, and Bilba knew them all by heart. On the child trilled, head tipped back and blue eyes half-lidded in pleasure at the feel of her mother’s hands in her hair, and the simple joy of singing._

_She slipped from that song to the next, and the next, and yet more. Songs about sowing fields, songs about flowers, and even one or two drinking songs that Bungo would have spluttered to hear from his precious child’s lips—though it was clear enough that their meanings were lost on Bilba, for all she dutifully belted them out verbatim—and left Belladonna chuckling under her breath._

_As the last bouncing notes faded over The Hill, Bilba seemed to pause, head tiling just so, as if she was listening to something barely out of range of hearing. Then she began to sing again, and now Belladonna did frown, because the song her daughter sang was not one she’d taught her...nor one that Belladonna herself knew._

_I nimwaloth i bain a phant,_  
_I laiss in end calen nadhras,_  
_Calad egennir mi i lant_ _  
E geil mi dhúath thiliol_

_Belladonna’s hands stilled where they sat, fingers tangled with leaves and stems and her daughter’s curls. “Bilba, sweet...where did you learn that song?” She asked, voice more curious than confused (though confused she surely was—she’d only just begun to teach her girl Sindarin some months ago) as she blindly tied off the last of the flowers into a circlet, knot tucked just behind one of the child’s ears._

_Bilba paused in her song, blinked, and glanced back over her shoulder at her mother. And then, with the guileless innocence of the children of all good races of Arda, shrugged and admitted, “I don’t remember.”_

* * *

**_TA2941, May 27th_ **

Bilba simply could _not_ believe she was doing this. Creeping forward through the brush, bent so low as to be nearly down on her hands and knees, her broad feet slipping with dear, dear silence over fallen leaves and twigs. She slunk ever closer to the flickering orange light of the crackling campfire ahead, around which sat three huge and hulking forms.

Kili’s warning to hoot like an owl if anything went amiss rattled through her head, and she fought the urge to scoff beneath her breath. _Hoot like a barn owl? Or did he say like a brown owl?_ Not that it rightly mattered—she wouldn’t have known one owl’s sound from the next’s, nor hoped to recreate them if she tried. Somehow the young dwarves had convinced her into approaching the trolls (for what else _but_ trolls could be so loud and so distressingly smelly?) alone, despite the fact that it had been _them_ who had lost the ponies.

How had it come to this? Honestly, she had thought herself an intelligent hobbit, but now she was less sure. Perhaps it had been the fact that the worst trouble they’d come upon in the month’s travel since she’d gone bounding out her green door was an abundance of rain and a dearth of proper inns. Yes, that must be it; she’d been lulled into a sense of security, and come to think that perhaps adventures weren’t such terribly uncomfortable things after all. Now she was paying for it in spades, oh yes she she was. _Fool of a Baggins_ **_and_ ** _a Took!_

 _Perhaps,_ she reflected to herself as she sidled around the edge of the troll camp and kept cautiously well outside the flickering ring of the fire’s light, _the Company will remember me more fondly once I’ve been gobbled up._ At least, so long as she managed to free the ponies first.

In truth she had few actual problems with the dwarves she’d been rambling along with...it was more that she’d simply not fit perfectly in with the majority. They’d been divided on their thoughts of her, she’d gathered, after seeing which had placed their bets for and against her joining them on their mad endeavor. The younger (or simply more friendly) ones—Fili, Kili, Bofur, and Ori—had been most eager to take her under-wing and spend time with her. They shared jokes (only some of which were at her expense) and stories, and kept her feeling at least somewhat involved. Though given how quickly Kili’d foisted the burden of burgling the trolls onto her shoulders, perhaps she ought to reconsider that notion.

The older and more gruff dwarves—Gloin, Dwalin, and Thorin of course—seemed either disinterested in her or displeased to find her still present with each new day on the road. Balin at least had remained diplomatic, and Oin, Bifur, and Dori had all been surprisingly decent, if coolly indifferent towards her company. Bombur was too closed-mouthed for her to get much of a sense of (though she put it down to shyness rather than cruelty), and Nori seemed a bit too roguish to tell if he was being kind or pulling her leg.

Still, they weren’t a bad batch, and she often found herself smiling as she rode along with them each day, even when it was pouring down rain. Ori was full of questions, asking about the Shire and hobbits and herself, and always writing something or other in his book. Bilba could understand that, having spent a fair bit of time writing as well before she’d left Hobbiton, though she’d mostly written notes for those she leased land or money too (as was the Baggins’ family business) or poems and riddles and songs. It’d been a diverting pastime as far as she was concerned, but Ori seemed to have real talent—something that perhaps had earned her some points with Dori when he’d overheard her saying so, as he offered her a cup of his own tea that evening.

She’d been well and ready to nestle into her bedroll for the night, warm steaming cup in hand, and rest away the day’s travel woes when Gloin had stomped by, thrusting two bowls of stew into her hands with a grunt. For half a moment she’d been alight with the thrill of what seemed double rations, but no.

“Take these to the lads, halfling, and be quick!” The ruddy-colored dwarf had grumbled, turning back to the rest before Bilba could open her mouth to complain that that was very much not her job, not to mention she’d yet to have her own dinner, thank you! Complaining would do her no good though—another lesson learned from her first days and weeks among the dwarves—and would serve only to garner glares and mumbles of her weakness from the Company. She’d also said more times than she liked that she wasn’t half of anything, and if they’d not mind calling her by her name, or even ‘hobbit’ instead of ‘halfling’, but clearly it made little matter to them.

So she’d wobbled to her feet, deftly balancing both bowls, and left her cuppa steaming atop the bedroll. _Hopefully I’ll be back in time to enjoy it before this crisp weather steals all the heat of it all away_ —that’d been what she’d been thinking when she’d slipped into the brush. Then _I can’t believe they lost the ponies!_ and then _By all the Valar, what is THAT?!_

And now here she was, huddled just outside the pen of snorting and stomping ponies, wondering if the trolls would at least be courteous enough to wring her neck before tossing her into their reeking, roiling pot of “soup”. She resisted the urge to bite at her nails, though her fingers padded at and across her lips for a long moment as she tracked the trolls’ movements about the camp. She had her knife, of course, though it was really little more than a paring blade she’d grabbed off the kitchen counter on her harried way out the door a month ago. Against the ropes the trolls had penned the ponies with (which were easily as thick as her own thigh) it’d do little good, and she certainly did not have all night to saw away at the tough fibers.

A larger blade (though undoubtedly less well-made) poked from one of the behemoths’ pockets...but would she even be able to lift it, should she manage to creep over to liberate it? It seemed a reach at best, and she shook her head, curls bobbling, and shoved the thought away.

Trolls, trolls, surely her mother had told her something about trolls that would be of use in this situation…! Stupid, smelly, some could talk (these seemed quite able, as they were debating the merits of—euch!—one of them having sneezed into the pot) and some couldn’t. Lived in caves and dark places, because they…

_Oh!_

Oh that was right, wasn’t it? Trolls turned to stone in daylight! Bilba felt her heart begin to race with excitement, her tongue flicking out over her lips as she adjusted her legs beneath her, the thrum of a half-budded idea making her eager to rise, to move, to act. The trolls could not be about in the daylight, so saving the ponies was as simple as waiting them out. If she was very lucky, she wouldn’t need to do very much at all, and could simply hold still and watch for them to scuttle off to wherever they denned down for the daylight hours. They _did_ already have the mutton they’d been gnawing, and their...she really did hesitate to call it soup, but they had it as well, and surely wouldn’t go so far as to eat the ponies too in one sitting.

Alas, Bilba should have considered how much trolls could eat with more care. Perhaps it was because she was a hobbit, and had assumed that no other race could compete with the voracious appetites of her own kind, but it seemed not unreasonable to think they would leave the ponies penned for their enjoyment tomorrow night. She’d been nearly about to slink back into the brush to go and alert the others of the Company to hold until dawn when one—the one that had been complained to about the mutton as he gnawed at it, as well—rose, drawing his knife into his broad, fat-fingered hands.

“Fat on’m or not, you’ll eat nag and like it, I says!” the troll grumbled, casting a dark look back at his fellows as he lumbered with booming steps towards the pen. The ponies, sensing danger of course, reared and pawed at the air, and the combined fright of it all sent Bilba nearly toppling back off her heels with a squeak.

“W-wait, wait! You can’t eat them _now_!” She trembled in the troll’s shadow, eyes wide when she realized she’d spoken aloud, and not in her head. In a breath she found herself clutched tight in the troll’s fist, her feet flexing, toes reaching and grasping for the ground as she was lifted bodily into the air.

“‘Ere, ‘oo are you?” The troll’s breath was hot and rank as it broke over her, and she shuddered in equal fear and revulsion against it.

“I-I’m B-Bi, ah, that is, Bilba, a-a huh, hobbit!” She managed to squeak out, making the troll furrow its brows as it spun to thrust the fist grabbing her towards his fellows.

“See what I’ve copped ‘ere, Bert!” The troll shook her none too gently, rattling her, and then uncurled his fist to let her stand upon his palm. It was far too high, where he held her, to leap down safely, not to mention the fire was crackling away almost directly below—she was no longer being throttled, thankfully, but certainly was no closer to escaping. “Says ‘e’s a huhobbit! I’ve never seen a huhobbit before, ‘ave you?”

It really was all Bilba could do for a moment not to lose her balance and fall into either the fire or the pot below as the troll offered her up for the others to inspect. She swallowed hard at the sudden looming presence of all three around her, paling and gripping hard to the thumb of the troll that had her perched upon his hand. “Can’t say I ‘ave,” chimed in one of the other trolls—Burt, though Bilba had been too frightened to catch his name.

“Can we eat it?” Wondered the third, Tom, reaching out to swipe at her. Thankfully the one that’d caught her tugged his hand back just in time (though she nearly did fall off his palm then).

“Lil’ thing’d barely make a mouthful once we plucked’r.” The first troll rumbled, holding Bilba nearer to his chest than any hobbit would ever want to be to a troll. “And’s too pretty ter be squashin!” A rough finger nearly as fat as her arm butted against her head, tangling her curls in a rather rough approximation of petting.

“Bah!” Tom growled, stalking closer around the fire. “Wha’s good fer petting, huh? You’ve always been a soft’n, Bill Huggins—we oughter dice’m up an’ toss’r in the pot!”

“Or roast’r with gravy!” Burt chimed in, tongue dragging over his horrible jagged teeth and grease-smeared lips. At that idea the troll holding her (Bill, or William, as it were) seemed to consider, and in a rush of desperate panic, Bilba threw her hands up, shivering as she spoke, “Please, wait!”

All three trolls snapped to stare at her, their beady eyes searching, but apparently surprised to hear their food (or pet, depending on which you asked) talking back, and not simply screaming in fear, as was the usual reaction of their victims. “Wait, please, and, and I’ll tell you a way to make your supper even better than it would be if, if you were to eat me!” In her panic she was only thinking of a way to delay the inevitable, but when the trolls did not instantly toss her into the pot, and instead glanced about at each other and then expectantly back to her, an idea began to form. She had no idea how to hoot like an owl, but she could definitely make enough racket so that Fili and Kili (even if they’d somehow managed to miss her being grabbed rather like they’d done the ponies going missing to begin with) would realize something was up, and go and fetch the Company.

“Well, you see, my mother always told me that the best sort of, of dinner, was, well, one you had a bit of entertainment as well!” She struggled to sound cheery, bright and certain with her knees knocking and wobbling. “Some of the best picnics I’ve been to came with m-music!” She went on, still holding tight to Bill’s thumb for balance as she looked from troll to troll.

“Y’mean like singin’?” Burt growled—he seemed churlish still at having been disallowed a huhobbit snack—but he still made no further attempts to grab at her.

“Oh, I do like singin’! Mum used to sing such nice songs t’me...back before we ate’r up, ‘course!” Chimed in Tom, reaching out to shove at Burt at the fond (and grim, if you asked Bilba) memory that no doubt brought up.

“Oh, aye, I remember tha’. Howlin’ an’ squealin’ at the moon like a boar stuck on m’knife, she was!” Bill laughed at the thought, and Bilba had to muffle a yelp—his whole person shook as he chuckled, sending her bobbing up and down on his palm and leaving her dizzy.

“Well, well, I mean, I would really just, just love to sing for you, if you like, as you enjoy your soup!” She pressed on, trying not to heave over the edge of Bill’s still-wobbly hand. “All us h-huhobbits love to sing, you see, and we’re really very good at it when we need to be. How about that? And then, once I’m done you can, ahm, well, you could always have me for dessert, r-right?” It was a terrible idea. A hideously stupid idea. The worst idea she’d ever had, and not even the trolls would be dumb enough to—

“That sounds jus’ lovely, if y’ask me. Say, d’you know the one’t goes…”

* * *

Fili’d gone bolting for the camp as soon as he and Kili’d seen the trolls scoop up poor Bilba. It’d taken barely a moment to rouse the dwarves with shouts of trolls and ponies and the burglar, but even the time it took for them to scramble for their weapons and charge back into the brush felt like an age and a day. What’d he and Kili been thinking?! As it was, Fili could only hope that Kili hadn’t gone and done something stupid (or something _else_ stupid, beyond sending poor little Bilba after _trolls_ —neverminding that he’d been right there, encouraging her right along with his brother) and that they wouldn’t be too late to save the littlest member of their Company.

“There’s three, and they’d made off with four of our ponies,” He was hurriedly and quietly explaining to Thorin and Dwalin as they went. “Bilba went to try and steal the ponies back, but—”

“Fool halfling!” Dwalin rumbled under his breath. “Three trolls is more than even I’m keen to deal with. _Burglar_ indeed, she’d be lucky to make it out alone, let alone with ponies in tow!”

Thorin rumbled his agreement, a dark look upon the dwarven king’s face as he stalked along. “And now we’re going to have to risk ourselves, risk the quest, just to save one elf-eared little…”

 _There’s an inn of old renown_  
_Where they brew a beer so brown_  
_Moon came rolling down the hill_  
_One Hevnsday night to drink his fill._  
_On a three-stringed fiddle there_  
_Played the Ostler’s cat so fair_  
_The horned Cow that night was seen  
To dance a jig upon the green._

 _Called by the fiddle to the middle of the muddle where the_  
_Cow with a caper sent the small dog squealing._  
_Moon in a fuddle went to huddle by the griddle but he  
Slipped in a puddle and the world went reeling._

Thorin’s eyes went wide, and Fili knew his own mouth was hanging open at what could only be _singing_ come drifting through the dark forest—and in Bilba’s own familiar and bright voice! “She’s not been eaten yet!” The prince could have cheered, but even his jubilant whisper drew a warning glance from the older, more experienced dwarves around him. In the moment Fili found he didn’t much care for just _why_ Bilba was singing, and he and the rest made further haste towards the edge of the flickering light.

 _Downsides went up- hey!_  
_Outsides went wide_  
_As the fiddle played a twiddle and the Moon slept till Sterrenday._  
_Upsides went west- hey!_  
_Broadsides went boom_  
_With a twiddle on the fiddle in the middle by the griddle  
And the Moon slept till Sterrenday!_

They came upon Kili standing stock still, one hand lifted to point towards the campfire, and the other fisted against his mouth to muffle what was probably laughter, eyes all alight. “Kili, what’s—?” Thorin had been ready to demand an answer from his younger sister-son, but drew up short as he followed Kili’s pointing to see…

“Mahumbûn…” His sword, which had been drawn and in hand, sagged to touch the leaf litter at their feet at the sight, though the screen of foliage, of their burglar clapping, stomping, and _dancing_ atop the hand of one of three massive trolls as she sang.

 _Dish from off the dresser pranced_  
_Found a spoon and gaily danced_  
_Horses neighed and champed their bits_  
_For the bloodshot Moon had lost his wits._  
_Cow jumped over, dog barked wild_  
_Moon lay prone and sweetly smiled_  
_The Ostler cried “Play faster, cat!  
Because we all want to dance like that!”_

 _Gambol and totter till you’re hotter than a hatter_  
_And you spin all akimbo like a windmill flailing._  
_Whirl with a clatter till you scatter every cotter  
And the strings start a-pingin’ as the world goes sailing._

 _Downsides go up- hey!_  
_Outsides go wide_  
_You can clatter with your platter but the Moon slept till Sterrenday._  
_Upsides go west- hey!_  
_Broadsides go boom_  
_With a batter and a clatter you can shatter every platter  
But the Moon slept till Sterrenday!_

All around the fire the trolls were dancing (if dancing was what it could be called), stamping and stomping and making a general mess of the camp. They were clapping roughly and off rhythm, hooting and doing their best to sing along, though they didn’t know the words, and were mostly just grunting and humming off key. Every so often a particularly exuberant move from the troll holding Bilba up like a performer atop a stage would send her wobbling, but she somehow managed to keep up her song unbroken—and no wonder, really, for if it was only her tune that kept the trolls from gobbling _him_ up, Fili realized that he would also rather fall right onto his arse than miss a single note.

On and on the song went, Bilba calling out strings of nonsensical jibber-jabber to get the trolls to reply in kind as well as to buy her time to think up more verses. The ugly brutes seemed to think that part quite fun, and she carried on with it for quite a time until, on one spinning turn about Bill’s palm, she noticed the Company watching her from in the brush. Her eyes, wide and glittering with exhilaration or fear, grew even wider, her brows shooting up towards her curls as if to say, ‘yes, hello, I see you there, now please help!’ before she turned back to her quite captive audience (and that was a funny thought, if she’d had a calm moment to consider it, the captive taking her captors captive in turn!)

“She’s been singing like this since right after you left, Fi!” Kili’d appeared at Fili’s elbow barely a moment after Thorin’d turned to see what he’d been pointing at. “It’s amazing!  I think the trolls have all but forgotten they meant to eat her or the ponies.”

“I just hope the lass doesn’t run out of songs any time soon,” Balin added, a grim frown upon his face. It was a wonderful thing, that the lass’d been quick enough to think up a distraction that would also work to signal to the Company to where she was, and that she yet lived, but it was still terribly risky. “Better than being eaten alive, though just why she went in after the ponies on her own, rather than coming back to fetch help…” Kili seemed to suddenly become entirely interested in the odd squatting and stamping dance one of the trolls had begun to do then, and Fili only just managed to school his face into a look of what he hoped wasn’t guilt. “Seems more the sort of thing one of you boys would think to do, really,” Balin continued on, fixing them with an all-too-knowing look.

Thankfully (for them) Thorin seemed too angry about the trolls in general to have noticed the back and forth, his hand twisting about the hilt of his blade. “The fool halfling’s done well to hold their attention, but I will not have our ponies lost. We cannot afford the time to walk, nor spare the coin to buy more.” A flash of hand signals rallied the Company to his side, weapons out and ready. “On my signal, we charge. If she’s lucky, the burglar will leap _away_ from the fire when the troll holding her falls.”

There were a few scoffs at that, but the princes traded glances, and then looked towards Bofur, Ori, and Balin. Seeing answering nods back, they readied to attack. Maybe, if the little hobbit fell wrong, one of them would be able to snatch her from the air in time.

Oblivious to the danger lurking near, Burt, Tom and Bill danced on and on to Bilba’s songs. Her voice would surely be sore the next day, provided she saw the next day, for all her effort to sing over the _boom boom boom!_ of the stomping brutes. Any minute now the dwarves would charge in and rescue her, she was sure, but until then she simply couldn’t stop. At least now that it was getting a bit lighter out it was getting easier to see where she was putting her feet atop Bill’s palm…!

“ _Du bekar!_ ” The dwarvish roar nearly startled her from her perch, and she squeaked, song shattering as she hit her knees hard on the troll’s hand. For a moment, loud, furious chaos reigned, and she shut her eyes tight against the sight and sound of it. She could hear the dwarves bellowing, feet pounding, the slicing sound of a blade carving through the air, and then— _clanggg!_

She could feel the vibration of one of the dwarves’ swords crunching into the leg of one of the trolls from where she sat, but to her shock, she wasn’t instantly dropped, or crushed in the hand around her. The frantically furious dwarves stumbled to a stop below, war cries similarly petering off to confused silence. “Huh,” That had to be Bofur—the amusement was clear in his voice even from where she hunkered. “Can’t say I was expectin’ that!”

Slowly Bilba blinked her eyes open, and stared down, down, down at the dwarves from Bill’s raised palm, which had, like the rest of him, been turned to stone. It seemed that the trolls had enjoyed her singing so much, in the end, that they’d all but forgotten to keep an eye on the slowly lightening sky, and the rising of the sun had gone unnoticed until it was at last too late.

Tucked up against Bill’s ankle, Thorin snarled as he managed to wrench his blade free from where it had been stuck—the troll’s sliced flesh having gone rigid and tight enough to dull and dent the sword when at last it came free in a shower of dust. He briefly inspected the ruined blade before tossing it down with a grunt, and then flinging a glare up at the hobbit as if that’d been her plan all along.

“Bilba!” Kili’s cheerful shout broke the moment of tension between the two, and Bilba shifted around to peer down from the height towards where the younger dwarf was waving up at her. “Good job! And look! The ponies didn’t even get eaten!”

 _Well_ , she thought to herself with a sigh, sagging against Bill’s granite thumb, _there’s that, at least._ And then, upon realizing that her only route down was to leap, or to try to climb along the troll’s upraised arm, she called out, “Would...would any of you happen to have a ladder? Or a, a step-stool, at least?”

As Nori unspooled a coil of rope to toss up, she couldn’t help but watch Thorin sulk off, his wrecked sword left laying in the dirt. She’d started to feel rather proud of how she’d handled the whole affair, even if it had been utterly terrifying in the moment, and she couldn’t find it in herself to be disheartened at his pointed disregard. _Maybe I’m more fit for this sort of thing than I’d thought!_ _After all, who knew that trolls liked singing so much!_

And when shortly after that Gandalf appeared, and the discovery of the trolls’ hoard was made, ending with Thorin strapping a much finer sword to his belt than he’d had before, Bilba didn’t even feel guilty about him chipping his old one on her behalf any more. She gingerly patted her own new blade—a tiny thing next to those Thorin and Gandalf had claimed, sure, but much better than her little knife—as she pulled herself up into Myrtle’s saddle a bit later, and wondered if she wouldn’t rather try to continue avoiding more violent solutions in the future.

“True bravery,” Gandalf had assured her, “is knowing when to spare a life, not take one.” She found that she heartily agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lithe - Part of the hobbits' mid-summer feast days. 1 Lithe, or Midsummer-eve, would be our June 21st, followed by Midsummer aka Mid-year's Day, and then 2 Lithe. Leap-years also would have Overlithe before 2 Lithe. These feast days fell outside the typical calendar months, and were full of celebrating.
> 
> The first song Bilba's practicing with Belladonna part of the song "The Ent and the Entwife". It's an elvish song from LotR, but I'm going with it being known to the hobbits from their early days as well, as this AU loosely considers hobbits the younger 'siblings' to Yavanna's ents. Obviously hobbits would sing it with a bit more of a...quicker pace than would ents.
> 
> The song Bilba sings in Sindarin is the start of “The Lay of Beren and Lúthien”. In English it would go:  
> "The leaves were long, the grass was green,  
> The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,  
> And in the glade a light was seen  
> Of stars in shadow shimmering."
> 
> Bilba’s song for the trolls is “The Cat and the Moon” from the Lord of the Rings Musical. It’s an alternate version of the song “The Man in the Moon Stayed Up Too Late”, which was a drinking song written by Bilbo, and sung by Frodo in Bree’s inn while dancing on a table in the books, and was sung by Bofur in The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey, in Rivendell. According to Tolkien, that song is what eventually became our own rhyme of “Hey Diddle Diddle”.
> 
> Mahumbûn - “Shit.” Literally, “droppings”, as far as I could find.  
> Du Bekar! - “To arms!”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely anxiouscrab, who is a treasure and very encouraging!

**_TA2887_ **

_Belladonna shrugged her pack higher up upon her back, hearing the leather creak and buckles rattle behind and below her ears. As she half-jogged down the path her dark curls bounced this way and that, a match, after a fashion, to the tumbling black waves the crowned the elf that had been her companion for the last three days. That—along with their shared gender—was about where the similarities between the pair ended, but it made little matter: Belladonna was quite at ease in Arwen’s (for Arwen was the name of her new friend, she’d learned) company._

_She’d come upon the young elf—young here being a relative term, as surely Arwen had seen thousands of more years than she had—down south along the Bruinen River. Belladonna’d taken the Greenway out of Hobbiton, keen to simply see where it’d lead her, and then had diverted upon reaching the waterway of the Mitheithel. Hobbits didn’t care much for water, and Belladonna didn’t either, but the rolling hills of the South Downs had distracted her enough with their beauty to make her willing to amble along with the river’s course._

_Her plan had been to follow the waterway up to the East-West Road and take that route back to Bree, and then on to home (to Bungo, her heart insisted). Upon reaching the fork where the Mitheithel and the Bruinen split, however, she’d come upon Arwen’s camp. The elf had been as interested in the hobbit as she herself was, and with both of them being young, adventurous women, they forged a swift bond._

_That’d been where her plans had diverged, for who in their right mind could resist an invitation to_ **_Rivendell_ ** _of all places? Arwen had even invited Belladonna to ride behind her on her tall mare, which had been a fun experience for about the first half hour. Belladonna’d insisted upon walking thereafter, and, perhaps amused, Arwen had slid down to join her and turned the mare loose with an elvish word that sent her racing ahead towards home._

_Now on foot they were cresting the last ridge before all of the hidden valley appeared, spread out below them like a mirage, too fanciful and wondrous to be real...if not for the road leading down into it, which neither of their pairs of feet could bear them down quickly enough to satisfy._

_She heard Arwen’s laugh ring out beside her, and then a shout of greetings from below as several elvish figured stepped out from between the trees, hands extended in warm and welcoming gestures. “Adar!” cried Arwen upon spotting one, who seemed to bear a star upon his brow above his wise and smiling eyes._

_It would be some several months later when she finally managed to bring herself to leave the valley of Imladris behind and turn her feet to Hobbiton. In that time had been born one of Belladonna’s greatest friendships, and she’d gained the title of elf-friend as well. Forever, until the end of her days, she would think of Elrond’s house as a sort of second home. It was a bittersweet thing, though she didn’t know it, for fate would conspire in such a way that she would never see the valley, nor her friends therein, again._

* * *

**_TA2941, June 4th_ **

Bilba couldn’t find it in herself to be fearful of the circling horses that had stamped and pranced in tightening rings around the Company, tall elvish riders upon their backs who carried bow and spear and blade—it had been alarming at first, certainly, but there was something so regal, so fluid and perfect about each movement that left her too distracted to feel any alarm. She was more in awe than afraid by the display...though the dwarves had clearly felt differently.

Yes, the dwarves had seemed ill at ease indeed. Part of her had been charmed at how quickly they had tugged her into the center of their group protectively, though the other part of her (a notably Took-sounding part) had been moderately offended: clearly they still thought her to be helpless, not to mention that Gloin’s tug on her arm had been none too gentle.

Once the fanfare was over the welcome had seemed warm enough, despite that the elves were rather unhappy to have had orcs come so near to the valley—she could no more fault the elves for that than she could herself for ducking and hiding out of sight of the windows when Lobelia Sackville-Baggins came ‘round every other week for tea. No one cared for that sort of invasion.

Thankfully Gandalf and Lord Elrond (who Bilba felt immediately keen to meet, recalling her mother’s tales) seemed to know what to do to assuage the flaring dwarvish tempers. An invite to food and shelter had been offered and accepted, for all of Thorin’s apparent hesitance to waste too much time. Perhaps seeing his sister-sons harried by orcs and wargs just hours before had rattled him enough to suffer the company of elves in order to see them safe and sound for a while. The Company had been ushered further into the valley, given time to clean themselves up and be seen to by healers (to a _one_ they had refused elvish treatment, insisting upon Oin treating their scrapes and bruises, the silly things) and set aside their packs (and that had been another challenge, to convince them that no one would be stealing from them as they ate) before being led to a wide terrace sporting a table laden with bowls and platters.

Bilba was not of a mind with the dwarves about the offered comforts, and had ducked away from the throng as quickly as she’d been able while they were squabbling with the elven healers. It’d taken more consideration than she’d expected—the lot of them were still on high alert following their flight from the orcs, and feeling plainly out of their element in the open and graceful expanses of Rivendell—but hobbits weren’t considered light on their feet for nothing! Once away from the group it had been almost too easy to snag one of their assigned attendants (who had wisely been hanging back at a distance) to request a private bath, and ask perhaps if there was somewhere she could wash her clothing before dinner.

The elf, whom had introduced himself as Lindir, turned out to be the same one that had greeted them upon their arrival, and he seemed almost Man-like in his fluster as he watched the dwarves grumble and track mud all over the pristine walkways. Bilba could understand that. She’d likewise never been one to enjoy when company turned up unannounced on her doorstep, especially when it was the sort in need of a bar of soap. In an effort to make up for the utter lack of manners the dwarves had exhibited, she made certain to be nothing but polite and understanding with the fellow, and to ask for only what she felt were basic comforts that were expected to be provided for guests.

Lindir, of course, had been happy to comply—or perhaps to have an excuse to vacate the dwarves’ immediate area—and led her away from the boisterous band and deeper into Elrond’s household. A few moments of awkward silence on Bilba’s part (she doubted an _elf_ could ever be awkward) at last gave way when she gasped aloud at the sight of one of the many terraced gardens when they passed it. It was overflowing with flowers, riots of pale and pastel colors springing from row after row and luring numerous glittering butterflies down to hover near. Her complimentary approval seemed to win her some affection from Lindir, with whom she spent the remainder of the walk to the bathing chambers discussing just what sort of blooms they had growing in the nearby fields and swapping tips on the planting schedules of different herbs and bulbs.

The room he led her to was small enough not to seem uncomfortably vast for the smallest guest to Rivendell, despite that it had been built to suit someone of an elf’s stature. From the soft light through the curtain-swathed windows, to the plush towels stacked higher than she stood, the sunken tub already full of steaming, fragrant water, the tall fluted pitchers of glossy oils and soaps...the _silence_ after over a _month_ of nonstop prattle from the Company… It was a slice of _heaven_ , and she only just managed to remember to thank Lindir before he ducked out of the room and left her to her own devices.

“You’ve done it _now_ , Bilba Baggins, oh yes you have!” She crowed to herself as she shucked her travel-worn clothes into a pile, pausing just long enough to pull her hairpin from its spot within her curls and she set it atop two of the thick and plush towels she’d placed beside the lip of the pool before stepping into the steaming water. The heat of the bath made her flinch, but a moment later she all but melted—face going slack, mouth hanging open, brows turned up with an almost-whine—as she slid down to kneel upon the rim that ran around the inside edge of the tub. It was too deep to sit properly on, but she did not at _all_ mind kneeling so that the sudsy water rose over her shoulders and tickled at her chin. “Oh, that’s just _lovely_ ,” she sighed, feeling the warmth leech aches and pains she hadn’t even known she’d carried out of her road-weary body. If her hobbity instincts hadn’t cautioned against it, she might even have been tempted to let herself lie back and just...float...for a while.

She’d lost all sense of the passage of time when at last she stirred from her marinating and let herself reach for one of the slender jugs of fragrant oils. The bath had retained its delightful warmth, so surely it hadn’t been that long, hmm? Or maybe that was something special the elves had managed with their baths—what she’d give to exchange Bag End’s clawed bathtub, fine as it was, for an elvish pool that simmered ever-warm!

A quick dunk beneath the surface and she poured a drizzle of the floral oil into her curls, to begin to scrub and massage away the grime and tangles. Her hair’d grown longer on the road, though the curly nature of a hobbit’s hair made the true length of it only show when it was wet. The ends now reached halfway down her back, and it took that much longer to work through the mess of it all. When the task was done the elvish soaps had restored its luster and left it shining as it drifted atop the water’s surface, and she could not find it in her to consider cutting it. A vain impulse, maybe, to want to keep it fancifully long—perhaps once she was back on the road and it again became a gnarled tangle she would do away with the long locks…

It was with great hesitation that she finally drew herself from the bath, fearful of becoming a right and proper prune (or missing dinner, perish the thought) despite how utterly lovely it had been. The towels went a far way to consoling her however; they were as soft as goose down and warmer than wool, and she spent several minutes swaddled like a babe with no fewer than three of the delicious cloths wound about herself. It felt a bit wasteful...but who knew when she’d chance upon such comforts as this again? That and the idea of pulling her dirty clothes back on made her hesitant and slow to shed her fluffy cocoon.

Of course, realizing that at some point her clothing had been snatched away was unsettling, and that it had been replaced with a folded bit of shimmering copper and blue fabric (a stunning dress, she found upon unfolding it, along with smallclothes) was even more embarrassing—had she really been so caught up in her soaking that she’d missed someone coming by mere feet behind her? It solved the problem of having nothing clean to put on quite nicely though, and she only paused a moment before slipping the gown on. She’d been left no other option, after all, and the dress had been freely given by her gracious host, so her choices were to accept the kind gift or to go streaking about the gardens of Rivendell in naught but a towel.

Her lips pressed together at that mental picture, already imagining how much it would delight the dwarves to see the elves as flustered as they’d surely be by that sight. _No. No thank you, very much._ The Company might have the combined manners of a four-year-old faunt after two spoons of sugar, but she was a proper Baggins of Bag End, and would do her best to conduct herself as such. Even if that meant it was done in what was likely a borrowed child’s dress.

Her still-damp curls hung thick about her neck and shoulders, but a deft twist with the end of her hairpin let her snag enough of the mass to pin it loosely up and out of her face. It was a bit of a casual style compared to the dwarves’ braids, but she felt rather pretty, and the feel of the slick, twisting metal under her fingers as she tucked it just so gave her comfort and not a small bit of confidence. She could always tie it back in a knot as well, but she pushed that idea aside. Thick curls took time to fully dry, and she would _not_ be seen here, in Rivendell, in Lord Elrond’s own home, with _musty hair_.

A knock came at the door then, just in time to beat her hand as it reached for the handle, and a feminine voice asking, “Miss Baggins, if you’re ready, your...Company...is gathering for the evening meal.” That left Bilba smiling and hurrying to pull the door open, beaming up at the dark-haired elf maiden that waited for her there.

* * *

Bilba didn’t know which was worse, the scowls the dwarves had fixed her with as soon as she’d come ‘round the corner and into view, or the subtler downward pull of their host’s brows, as near to a frown as she could imagine seeing upon the mighty elf’s face, as he looked her over. Really, she _knew_ she was more suited for the Shire style of dress, but what could she have done? The elven clothes had been what was left for her, and so it was what she’d worn. It was a mild relief when Elrond seemed to come to a decision, his face relaxing and smile growing as he gestured for her to join them at the table, motioning to the seat to his right—one the dwarves had pointedly left open, preferring to huddle as far towards the foot of the table (and away from their host) as they could manage.

Not a one of the dwarves’ stares left her as she hurried across the cool stone towards her spot at the feast, and she saw more than one hand raise to hide a whisper from her. Apparently her appearance was worth more worry than what had to have been her lengthy disappearance, and it stung more than a little bit, for she’d thought that she’d grown close to at least some of them. There were Fili and Kili, eyes wide and heads together as they muttered; there was Balin, looking as if he’d just found a toad in his boot; Ori and Nori at least looked more curious than unhappy, but Dori was like a thundercloud over their shoulders, and she withered slightly to see he had one hand firmly on Ori’s shoulder, as if to restrain him from trying to move towards her.

The Ur family seemed blessedly distracted by the food, and though Bofur tossed her a wink, it was overshadowed by the utter fury that swathed Dwalin and Thorin like a dark cloud, and she dropped her gaze before the quiver that it sent up her spine traveled to her legs to send her fleeing back the way she’d come. Even focusing on Gandalf and Elrond didn’t spare her further woe, as Gloin’s grumbling to Oin (who was as selectively deaf as ever) hit a peak just as she passed by them. Oin’s demanding “What?” had been repeated enough times to prod Gloin into a near-shout, “She looks more like a wee elf than a halfling! Her ears are as pointy as one of those bloody tree-huggers’ are, I said!” and she had to fight the urge to reach up and pull her hair free from it’s style to cover them again, for all the good it would do.

With a blush that would put her prized tomatoes to shame, she pulled herself up onto the vacant seat and did her best to smooth her skirts. Well! They might not have any manners to speak of, but she would do her best to rise above whatever offense she’d apparently given the Company by daring to look half-presentable for their host! Besides, it wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before (though perhaps it’d been in kinder words, those previous times) as far back as her fauntling days, nor was it anything under her control. Leave it to the dwarves to forget that she’d been there, side by side with them for near to two months in plain sight, pointy ears and all without them minding.

If she speared her fork into her salad with a bit more force than was absolutely necessary, who would be the wiser?

“Bilba, I don’t believe you had the fortune of being introduced earlier, hmm? Off following your feet towards the baths?” Gandalf chuckled with a gentle mirth—the teasing was meant lightly, which kept it from rankling Bilba too terribly. In the moment she rather welcomed the distraction that was him drawing her into conversation.

“Of course, Gandalf,” She gave the wizard a bit of a pointedly haughty look. “I’d ask if you’d see fit to meet Lord Elrond, of the Last Homely House, in your road-clothes, but clearly that’s never been a problem for you.” Her eyes flicked down to the same worn gray robes she’d ever seen the wizard in. Even the idea of him in anything but the old rags was nearly a joke!

Gandalf spluttered at that, clearly caught off balance by the hobbit lass’ sharp tongue, but really—what’d he thought she’d been doing in the Shire since last they’d met, if not wetting the blade of her tongue against the likes of her more uncouth relatives? She caught what sounded like a laugh from one of the dwarves, but she firmly ignored it, and it was swiftly silenced. That was just fine with her; if they were going to behave like they’d never seen a girl before, or a hobbit, or like dressing up nicely was a crime, then let them keep to their grumbling. She wouldn’t let it bother her a moment longer than it already had.

Elrond too had let slip a chuckle, though, and that’d done much to lift her spirits. “He never truly is dressed for dinner,” the elf lord confided, which set Gandalf to spluttering and stammering again. “Not once in so many years of friendship has he come to us in anything but that which he comes now. The one predictable thing about him,” Elrond continued, expression serious but eyes alight with mirth at the wizard’s indignation...and then swept back to fix on Bilba, flaring with curiosity and interest. “Unlike the company he keeps, and would bring to Rivendell unannounced.”

“I think he enjoys the look of surprise when he turns up to dump company on you without a word of warning,” Bilba nodded, nose turned up in haughty solidarity with the elf, who did smile then, a warm amusement curling through his demeanor.

“You remind me of your mother; never afraid to speak her mind. I am certain that you know she was a friend of mine, though I regret that we had not spoken for some time before her passing. Even here in this peaceful sanctuary we felt her loss, and mourned that never again would she walk among us.” He paused a moment, and Bilba could see the shadow of grief move over him like a physical thing, there and gone in a moment before he continued. “You can imagine my surprise, then, to learn that she had a child. One who had joined her lot to that of a company of dwarves. One so very...” He paused, eyes moving in a pattern she knew well, considering her height, her build, her ears, her eyes, everything about her that had ever been called un-hobbitish. To her pleased surprise, there was no judgement in his gaze. Confusion, perhaps, and wonder, but no judgement. “...unique, among her kind,” he finished, lips turned up in a soft and strangely knowing smile.

Before she could ask just what he meant by that, a distracting clatter caught the attention of all three of them, and looking about revealed Kili gone rather red in the face, his fork still rattling on the table from where he’d apparently dropped it. Fili was beside him, as ever, head thrown back and howling with mirth along with the other dwarves nearby. Whatever’d gone on had been lost on those further towards the head of the table, but it seemed to have been enough of an amusement that it’d pulled some of the attention away from Bilba. Poor Kili, however, looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. She’d have to check in on him later—he was a troublemaker, yes, but he hadn’t been too unkind along the journey so far, and he really was only just past his majority. She’d been horribly sensitive at that age herself, and knew (plainly, as it’d happened again only moments ago) how it felt to be judged for something you’d done or said, or even your looks.

The rest of the meal was passed in jovial enough company. Elrond had many a question for Bilba about her mother’s life and passing, which she answered freely and openly, and she had just as many questions for him in turn about the elves and Rivendell. More than once she caught the dwarves looking in their direction—it wasn’t really eavesdropping when you were talking conversationally for all to hear, she supposed—but it seemed that, for now at least, she had been counted apart from their company. Not one of them spoke to her throughout the meal, save for a moment where Ori piped up, “Oh, Miss Bilba—” before he’d quailed under a twin look of scolding from both Dori and Gloin. Were it not for the attention Elrond paid her through the evening, she might have minded that the dwarves saw fit to shun her, or at least minded more than she already did.

It came to light that Belladonna, brave thing that she was, had even gone so far as to send Lord Elrond an invitation to her wedding. Of course Elrond had been unable to attend, but he’d sent along a gift of several bolts of fine cloth that Bilba thought she’d recalled having been sewn into several blankets over the years (and one of which had been upon the best guest bed the very night the Company had come for dinner—ha! To think they’d enjoyed something elven without even knowing it!) He had always hoped to see once more the spirited hobbit that had come rambling down the river-road with Arwen so long ago, but with the immortal life of an elf, he had known that a day would come when she would pass from the world. “My greatest sadness is that it came so soon, for the both of us. I am sure that she would be proud of you now, Bilba, for walking a path greater than that which she laid out so long ago.”

His kind words had brought tears to her eyes, and she had needed several minutes to collect herself after that. Gandalf had stepped graciously into the moment to pull the conversation away, and bid Elrond’s attention fall upon the blades they had taken from the trolls’ cave. _Glamdring. Orcrist._ Bilba had still been adrift on a tide of memories and emotion, and neglected to ask after her own sword—dagger?—weapon’s history before the rest were sliding their blades to rest.

“This, however,” A gentle touch roused her from her mental wanderings, and she looked up to find Elrond’s hand a breath away from her hair. He’d only just touched, feather-light, the gold and silver leaves holding her curls away from her face. “Is certainly also of elf-make, though I cannot say for certain that I recognize its likeness. Where came you by it?”

Her own hand snaked up to cover the pin, to hide it from the suspicious gaze of the Company, now half fixed upon her and half glaring daggers at their host (which left her utterly at a loss—that they could be defensive _of_ her and _from_ her at the same time), as well as to hold it close. Elf-make or not, it was dear to her, and for a wild moment she wondered if Elrond would bid her to return it as an heirloom of his people. His eyes remained soft with kindness though, waiting patiently for her to volunteer the answer to his question.

“My mother gave it to me, after my father passed,” she finally offered. “He’d given it to her, along with Bag End, when they were married, and I don’t think she had the heart to keep it once he was gone.” It was a sad and sweet memory, that one. Her parents had loved each other so deeply, but it had made the pain of the loss of Bungo all the harder for Belladonna to bear. “Apparently he found it as he dug out our second pantry; it was buried in the earth, if you can believe it!” She felt along the familiar edges of it, tracing the one larger, spade-shaped leaf, and then down to the smaller sprig of longer petal-like fronds that joined it at the stem, and over the scattered white gems she knew were embedded there. “He’d wondered if it was dwarf-make, at first,” She ignored how the mutters of the Company grew louder at that, no doubt _offended_ that elvish work had ever been compared to _theirs_. “But it made no difference to him. All that mattered was that Belladonna liked it, in the end.”

“A worthy quality to seek in any gift, especially one of the heart,” Elrond agreed, though Bilba had to wonder at the strange mix of sadness and hope that seemed to lurk in his eyes as he looked again upon the trinket. “You wear it as well as any elf maid; I am sure that if its creator knew it was in your care, they would not begrudge you the keeping of it.”

For a grim moment Bilba considered if perhaps Elrond knew the elf that had crafted the pin—her father had never been able to find any sort of mark upon it to hint at when or how or by whose hand it had been made—but said moment of contemplation was shattered when Bofur suddenly heaved himself up upon the table and began to shout and sing, drowning out the harps and flutes of the elves and kicking plates and goblets to spill against his fellow dwarves or break upon the floor. The dinner dissolved into an unfortunately familiar chaos after that, leaving Bilba to mutter apologies on the Company’s behalf to their long-suffering host.

* * *

**_TA2941, June 20th_ **

Bilba thrived in Rivendell while the Company lingered there, trapped by time’s slow march towards midsummer, which apparently was the only time Thorin’s map would divulge its secrets. It had been quite a task for Gandalf to convince the dwarf leader to reveal the map to Elrond that first night within the valley, especially after the mess they’d made of the feast, but in the end wiser more open minds had prevailed, and Thorin had had little choice but to remain among the elves he so despised for a while longer.

Bilba had thought the delay would be rather good for them all—she had wanted the chance to explore the gardens and waterfalls and libraries, and the dwarves could stand to learn some patience, after all—but it seemed to have only made the lot of them crankier and more cantankerous as time ground slowly on. They simply seemed too stubborn to even begin to question how they viewed the elves, and it made the whole ordeal just that—an ordeal—for both sides, as well as for Bilba, who seemed caught smack-dab in the middle.

Following the fantastically impolite end to dinner that first night, she’d been dragged back into the group when they’d departed for bed—towed along by Fili and Kili, who did their best to not let on that most of why she’d been suddenly re-assimilated was because Thorin feared she would spill _secrets_ about their quest to Lord Elrond. She of course had taken offense to that—they were there seeking supplies and information, so surely their journey’s aim would be known to Elrond sooner rather than later—but tried not to begrudge the boys for following their uncle’s orders. As for _secrets,_  they’d already shown Elrond the map once, and she’d like to think one as wise as him would be able to guess at “what their interest” in it was. And it wasn’t as if they’d begun to teach her Khuzdul or other such forbidden lore in the last month, so just what _secrets_ she might be able to share were beyond her!

Regardless of their foolishness, their rudeness, and their clear disapproval of her, the dwarves had kept on her heels for more than a few days thereafter. Dogging her through the gardens and stalking her when she visited the library, and upsetting nearly everyone they ran into in the process. She genuinely believed that some of them were worried about the elves doing something to _her_ (she’d overheard Ori worrying to Nori that first night that _surely_ the elves had been making fun of her by dressing her up like a doll, and Balin’s bitterly displeased look when Bofur asked about Elrond’s interest in her hairpiece—and mentioned that he’d actually touched her hair—had taken her aback), which made their hovering more tolerable, but she could only handle Dwalin yanking her back by the arm any time she turned a corner too quick, or Gloin trampling over her attempts at friendly conversation with the elves, or even dear Bifur’s silent and grim-faced glaring, so many times before she began to feel like a naughty faunt, forever in trouble.

She’d complained of it one night, after her feathers had been particularly ruffled by an encounter that’d nearly ended with a number of the Company shoving a pair of elves into a fountain after they’d spotted Bilba walking with them, and she was just setting up for a proper row with the dwarves when Thorin, of all people, had leapt to her defense.

“Let the burglar wander where she likes. We’ve better things to do than play nursemaid to elves or halflings.” He’d rumbled, dark stare meant just as much for her as the rest of them.

It’d been a smidge insulting, when she thought about it later—that clear dismissal of what happened to her that he never would have had for any of the _dwarves_ in his care—but it got her the result she wanted, so she let it slide without comment beyond an exasperated, “Thank you, and it’s about time you made that clear!”

She still made a point to share at least one meal a day with the Company, and bedded down with them at night (a true test of her resolve with lush feather beds so near at hand) as she feared that if she started sleeping in a room alone they would turn up gone one morning, having left her behind.

But, wonderfully, her time was otherwise her own. She had little interest in weapons training like some of the dwarves, though probably she could have used it, and she had no desire to be involved in the various pranks and tricks that they enacted to try to prod and bother their hosts. She still spent time with those dwarves she’d felt herself growing closer too, and happily let Ori badger her with questions, but the truth of the matter was clear. Bilba felt far more at home when she was alone in Rivendell, or in the company of the elves, than she did with the dwarves.

It was a sobering thing to realize, but understandable. She’d been enamored of the elves since her childhood, and felt an instant kinship with those she met, no doubt because of the friendship her mother had shared with them. The dwarves, conversely, were rude and secretive and suspicious. She understood their motives for such behavior (mostly) but that didn’t make it any easier to draw close, to feel...wanted among them. She’d determined, after some thought, that she wouldn’t allow that distance to keep her from doing her best to help them—even Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had deserved a helping hand that spring when the heavy rains had caused an older section of her and Otho’s smial to collapse. Sure, Lobelia’d ended up with an entirely new smoking room, all on Bilba’s dime, but that wasn’t the point: even grumps and gossips and silverware-stealing menaces deserved a proper home, and help in keeping it. Homes were second only to family in hobbit society after all, and if getting the dwarves their home back meant putting up with some truly childish behavior, _well_. At least there was plenty in Rivendell to distract her until the journey was rejoined.

She passed long afternoons in the library, pouring over old tomes or discussing songs and poems (quietly) with the other elves she found there. She tried her hand in the kitchens, and had been happily surprised when the elves hadn’t tried to insist that she was a guest, apparently knowing how well hobbits loved to cook and be of use. She revisited the baths several times, indulging in the luxury of it, though once she had her cleaned and mended clothes back she resolved to tuck the elven dress away in her pack—it’d clearly upset the Company when she’d willingly worn it a second time some days after the feast.

The dark-haired maiden that’d fetched her from the baths that first night had turned out to be Arwen herself, Elrond’s daughter, and the same elf that had met Belladonna upon the road all those years ago. Bilba’d spent a full day sat beside her, eyes wide as Arwen regaled her with tale after tale of Belladonna’s time in Rivendell, and shared some of the letters they’d swapped in the years following. The two dark-haired women had become fast friends, and it did Bilba’s heart good to share those happy memories. It had been nearly a decade since Belladonna’d passed, and she still felt a deep melancholy about it from time to time. The shared laughter over those stories turned it a bit more tender, a bit more sweet than bitter, and Bilba promised at the end of the day to take up her mother’s habit of writing to the lovely maiden. Provided she survived this journey, that was.

In time Bilba became quite familiar with most of the paths and ways around the area the Company had made themselves at home in. Ever curious, and sensing no distrust or dislike from the elves (provided none of the dwarves were with her), her forays into Imladris had become longer and longer. Rippling pools, shimmering falls, carved bridges and terraced porches. Bilba felt like she could _breathe_ in Rivendell, even more, somehow, than she’d ever been able to in the Shire. As Midsummer drew near, and she realized that their time would no doubt be coming to an end in the Last Homely Home, she let her feet carry her _everywhere_ within the valley, indulgent in the luxury of simply _being_ in that place. She might never see these halls again, after all, and there was little time to waste in paths she’d trod thrice-over already, or surrounded by grumbling dwarves.

A warm sunrise was just giving way to late-morning blue skies when she came upon the chamber. A snugly nestled alcove, the thick vines and arcing stone and wood that mantled it left it notably cooler than the sunny paths outside, though it was still open and pleasantly airy, as was all the architecture of Rivendell. As she stepped inside, the chirping of the birds faded to the muted rush of waterfalls, scattering to mist out of sight somewhere below and beyond the balcony. Bilba trailed a hand along a low rail as she let her curiosity carry her towards the far wall, where the edge of a shallow curving staircase peeked out from around a corner, and one—no, several, she realized as she came closer—murals hung, each so large that it could have been used for a quilt upon even a Man-sized bed.

She paused by each as she passed them, eyes trailing over the detailed brush strokes and the curling inscriptions in gold and sapphire around their borders. A strange and beautiful city upon a hill, white stone and shining towers: Ost-in-Edhil, long since crumbled to ruins. A lone figure, stood wrought and weeping, over a field of corpses: the fall of Gondolin. A moon-shaped ship slicing through dark waves, two figures upon it with wind tossed hair: Eärendil and Elwing, aboard Vingilot, sailing West. Two elves lit only by the light of the molten metal they wrought, and all else in deep shadow as they worked: Celebrimbor and the forging of the Rings of Power. She stopped at each, the weight of time beyond and before her own upon her shoulders as she lingered over those windows to past Ages.

Beyond the last, the stairs gave way to a platform of sorts, widening to serve as perch for a graceful sculpture. A cloaked figure with hair twisted into coiling braids, cradling what could have been a shield, atop which it bore a tumble of fine embroidered fabric, and numerous silvered shards of a blade; long-broken, but clean and sharp, as if awaiting the day they would be remade into a whole once more. A faint prickling raced up her neck as she drew near, as if she’d stepped into a cloud of...something. Apprehension, mingled with an uncomfortable sense of prescience. She gave it a final glance before turning away—she was only a very little hobbit in a world of larger and greater destinies than her own, surely, and found the weight of the broken blade uncomfortable.

What met her gaze as she moved past it did little to ease the ominous sensation: a final mural, vast and terrible, light and dark and a victory at the cost of lives and souls.

“Isildur brings about the downfall of Sauron on the slopes of Orodruin…” She knew the story, would have known the moment, even if she had not read the inscription. Such dark parts of history were rarely told of in places like Hobbiton, but she was a well-read hobbit, after all.

The sheer power of the mural held her spellbound for some long moments, hands wringing gently against her middle as she gazed into the face of a man long dead, and flinched to see the monstrous figure looming over him. Around one finger glinted a band of gold—and gold must have been mixed into the paint as well, for it shined as true as any metal—and it snared her in the moment. “So much pain, all because of a trifling thing like that…”

“Indeed,” Elrond’s low voice from behind her sent her heart racing, leaping in her chest as she spun to stare up at the elf. How long he’d been there behind her, his own stare locked on the painting of _a moment he had seen himself_ , she gasped to realize, she could not guess. Time had seemed to slip away as she lingered on the sight of that man, that monster, that _ring_. “Alas for the suffering it wrought,” Elrond finally continued, his gray eyes sliding to meet hers, so sad and tired and _ancient_ in the moment. “But it is gone now. He can never be whole again, never threaten Middle Earth again, without the Ring.”

His smile was not quite forced, but it was not a smile of true joy and triumph, and neither was the one Bilba mustered in return for him, murmuring, “I cannot say that I like to imagine what would become of the world if he ever got it back.”

“Nor do I. Take comfort though, for the mass of evil’s force was shattered on that day.” He reached out, a long and slender hand finding her shoulder, and guiding her along and away from the dark scene. Together they moved out from under the shadow of the alcove to sit, side by side, on a low bench drenched in sunlight. It was rather like waking from a dream, Bilba thought, as she felt a warmth she hadn’t realized she was missing begin to seep back into her bones.

“At the Siege of Barad-dûr, where the Last Alliance of Men and Elves met Sauron’s force in one final effort to end his reign of darkness,” Elrond continued at length, with the mien of one reliving a story as much as telling it. Perhaps he had guessed at her curiosity from the time she had lingered before the mural, for all that it had been half hidden in the shadow of her fear of such dark things and times. Here under the golden light of day, with flowers and friends at hand, it felt not quite so dark—and perhaps, she thought, that was why he chose to share the story of that final battle with her.

“For all that the final battle seemed brief, the combined forces of Middle Earth had held Sauron’s forces at bay for nigh unto seven years when at last the Dark Lord descended to do battle. Arrows fell like rain, unending and just as cold and cruel, and stones like hail, to weary our forces. Still the spirit of our united forces proved the stronger, for when at last the gates of the Dark Tower opened before our eyes…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About Rivendell’s murals in the Narsil chamber—they all really are there, you can see them in both LotR scenes in said room, and in the scene there in The Hobbit!  
> Ost-in-Edhil was the capital city of Eregion (one of the realms of the Ñoldorin elves) in Middle-earth during the Second Age.  
> Gondolin was a hidden city of the elves at the heart of Beleriand, it was betrayed to Morgoth by a lord of the city, and sacked by his forces in FA510.  
> Eärendil and Elwing are Elrond’s parents; Eärendil sails the seas endlessly, bearing the Silmaril that Beren and Luthien recovered from Morgoth, and Elwing waits for him in her tower off the shores of Valinor.  
> Celebrimbor forged the rings of power under direction from Sauron, in the form of Annatar, the Lord of Gifts. Only the Three, Narya, Nenya, and Vilya, were forged with no influence by Sauron, and were unknown to him until he first donned The One Ring.
> 
> Adar! - “Father!”  
> Imladris - The Sindarin name for Rivendell, “deep valley of the cleft”.  
> Orodruin - Another name for Mount Doom, literally “Fire Mountain” in Sindarin. Amon Amarth would be a less common but more direct Sindarin name, “Hill/Mountain Doom/Fate”  
> Barad-dûr - “dark fortress”; it was Sauron's primary stronghold in Mordor, serving as his base of operations in Middle-earth during the Second and Third Ages. It’s the tower his flaming eye appears atop in the movies.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely anxiouscrab, who is a treasure and very encouraging! Please wish our crustacean friend well while travelling overseas this month!
> 
> Fair warning, this chapter includes descriptions of the deaths of some minor characters, on screen and off, though it isn't very graphic at all.

**_SA3434_ **

_The hosts of Silvan elves had shattered against the Black Gate; bodies piled higher than a man stood, and scattered across Dagorlad to where the last of them had been driven back, to mire and drown, falling in the Dead Marshes. The ground was dark and clung to the boots of soldiers marching into Mordor—wet with blood and thick with ash, a morass stewed of the foulest sort of death—the death of the immortal elves, who were meant to last as long as the world itself._

_Their deaths here had been wrought twice-over by the darkness of Evil: the immediate darkness, that Sauron had stoked in the souls of the foul things and peoples of the world, and poisoned hearts and minds with fear and ignorance, had led to this slaughter; and the ancient darkness, which Sauron’s master, Morgoth, had threaded into the fiber of Arda itself as it was sung forth into being, that primordial discord, that attempt at usurping Eru Ilúvatar’s First Plans, that had brought the very concept if death to the world—for elves were never_ **_meant_ ** _to die._

_Now their numbers had been reduced by more than half. Thousands and thousands of perfect, immortal souls, filled with the light of the Flame Imperishable, had been ripped from their bodies. Fëa sundered from hröa until such a time as the Valar saw fit to reunite them. And worse, perhaps, was that the fallen elves had been disjoined from Middle Earth itself—never again to return to the forests and hills beneath the stars where they had long dwelt. It had been the land of Middle Earth itself that they had loved most dearly, and so deeply that they (or their ancestors) had turned away from the Great Journey as they reached the Vale of Anduin and the Misty Mountains, forsaking the light of The Two Trees to remain forever upon the starlit eastern shores. It had been for that land that they had joined the Army of the West to march on Mordor: to save the world they loved._

_Once they were reborn, rehoused in flesh in that distant Far West, they would be unlike they had been before. Nevermore, until the unmaking and remaking of Arda, would those among the fallen see the lands and skies they had loved so well, and once that distant remaking came, even the light of the stars would be changed, muted by the radiance of Valinor, and Laurelin and Telperion, regrown to cast their glow to the ends of the world. It was as cruel a fate as could befall any elf not of the Calaquendi._

_Oropher had been among the fallen. His King, his Commander._

_His Father._

_The Sindar Lord of the Silvan elves of Eryn Galen, Greenwood the Great; as brave and true a leader as they could have wished for...but foolish, Thranduil could see now. Oropher had been impatient, and chained to his principles, and worst of all, he had been_ **_emotional_** _, and gave himself too quickly to the urge to let his heart guide his body down paths best trod with caution._

_It had been Oropher’s sense of honor that had balked to the command of the High King Gil-galad, and Oropher, along with Amdír, the King of Lothlórien, had set their peoples apart from the Host of the West as it marched for Mordor. Their honor, their pride, perhaps, or their wretched wounded hearts had made the Sindar lords restless, eager to repay the Enemy with blade and bow. Thranduil had seen his father’s tears at the sight of what remained of the southern lands of Rhovanion—the desiccated earth and charred remnants of the Gardens of the Entwives, which Sauron and his forces had consumed in a blaze, purely to deny their enemies the resources to be found there. He had felt his own blood chill at the sight of beasts and birds, twisted by the dark corruption that leached into the hearts of all things too near to that black land, but had forced it down to the pit of his stomach, and his father had instead given a great cry of fury. Rage would serve none of them well unless it could be handled with cool precision. Would that his father had felt the same._

_When the Silvan hosts had moved to strike before Gil-galad had given the signal, before the masses of men and elves under his command began their charge, because of Oropher’s impatience, his principles, his_ **_heart_** _, Thranduil had gone with them. What else could he do? He was a prince of his realm, and his father’s right-hand. It was a brash decision, but Thranduil could not abandon him for it. He had seen his father plunge ahead, the gleaming tip of the spear of his people, shining and burning like a star in his righteous fury before the chaos of combat stole Thranduil’s attention away utterly._

_The Battle of Dagorlad, as it came to be known, was not over in an hour, nor in a day—not even that first, half-joined skirmish was over quickly. On and on the fighting raged, an unending torment of shrieking metal and the screams of the dead and dying. The main of Sauron’s forces had amassed there on the plain outside the Black Gate, and they drove the Silvan hosts back, crushing into their smaller numbers with all the savage brutality their twisted souls called for. Even nature the Dark Lord had bent upon itself, and there among the enemy rank and file were some of nearly every sort of creature imaginable. Even birds and bats, their wings stained in black and red, swooped to peck and harry the elves, or drop stones from a height to stun or cripple. Only of the elves were there none among that enemy tide._

_Thranduil had not recalled wondering_ **_why_ ** _Gil-galad had kept his men at bay, as he battled orc after orc, Fallen Men and wargs, trolls, goblins, and things far more fell. He did not think to ask_ **_why_ ** _the greater part of the Last Alliance stood by and watched as his father’s people were crushed and rent and trampled, and nearly half of their blood spilled before, at last, the High King of the Elves saw fit to bring his might to bear upon the Enemy’s minions. No, Thranduil had wondered very little about anything beyond the next sweep of his sword, dodging the next jab of his enemy’s blade, the next whistle of arrows falling like rain to pierce friend and foe alike as he fought and fought and_ **_fought_** _, day passing into night and then day again unnoticed._

_Four thousand years of life had not left him unskilled, but such a battle as this and against such foul odds left little time nor space for wayward thoughts. To let the mind wander was to invite death, and he refused to fall. He carved a path of ruin with all the strength and vigor native to his kind, his focus extended to those immediately around himself, and little more. Each time he felt the cold prick of a knife’s point, or the flash of heat from an arrow’s tip, he strove to fight all the harder, and those small pains warned him when his attention began to slip, and he was able to steel himself and fight on._

_When at last the remaining forces of the Alliance joined the battle, the tide began to turn. Despite the heavy losses of the Silvan people, to say which side now numbered the greater would be impossible. Once the elves of Gil-galad, and the men of Numenor, and even those dwarves of Durin’s people who’d come from the halls of Khazad-dûm to stand against the might of Mordor, added their bolts and blades and shields to stand against the army of evil, then at last did the End begin for Sauron._

_It would be a bloody victory, hard won from the jagged teeth of their foe, but when it came to pass that the orcs at last fell back, the Black Gate was cracked open and left unguarded behind them—and passage into the land of Darkness at last wrested from Sauron’s grip._

_When the fighting was at last over, Thranduil sought out his father. He found him where last he’d seen him: his shining King, first among those to reach the Black Gate, his blade clenched in his hand and a silvered crown upon his brow, though now his long blond hair had been stained to rust with blood, and what starlight had lived within his eyes had been hidden forever behind closed lids. Through a strange haze, a sort of choking feel of static that filled his mind, Thranduil realized that Oropher had looked almost surprised when he’d fallen. As if he couldn’t imagine, hadn’t believed that an elf really_ **_could_ ** _die._

_In stories it seemed that such moments were always fraught with a sort of miserable hope. That the fallen were only sleeping, and not really gone. That once their loved ones drew near and spoke their name, they would rise, bloodied but whole, to embrace them. They would go on, laughing about how they had been laid low not by sword or steel, but by something like a crack on the head from a wayward hilt or slung stone._

_Thranduil fell under no such illusions as he looked then upon Oropher’s form._

_His father had perished in that first charge, and Thranduil had been King of his people for near to a month without knowing it. There was little left of the fallen lord to bury, and no time to bury it as the combined host of men and elves pushed forward, through the Black Gate and towards Barad-dûr. They set the bodies to the flame as they marched, those of man, dwarf, elf, and orc alike, for there was no way to tell the remains apart, so horrid had been the wounds dealt to either side. The remnants of the shattered Silvan forces fell in alongside their High elf counterparts, both halves—for King Amdír had fallen as well, run down into the chilling depths of the Marshes—committed to the end of the war. There was nothing else but to press on, or else retreat to their far-off forests. The price their peoples had paid was too great already to allow such sacrifice to be in vain._

_There would be time for grief and mourning later, Thranduil vowed silently to himself as he took his place at the head of the host (his host—and none would see him pause for just a moment before stepping, not into his previous place, but into his father’s place there at the head of it). Time to face that grasping, straining sadness that he could not now bear to look upon within his heart, time once the war was done. Should he let it consume him as he wished, when the battered remnants of the once-proud Army of the Greenwood still looked to him, still put their hope and faith and trust that their king would guide them through to the other side upon_ **_his_ ** _shoulders… Allowing himself to break would undo what strength they had mustered, and condemn them all._

_And so he smothered his anguish in its infancy, froze his unshed tears into ice to clad his heart. A bitter, biting armor that would inure him to those losses he had faced, and those he had yet to face, until the day that he could cast it down among the rubble of the Dark Lord’s fallen black tower, when the light of goodness at last came to thaw that blasted land and purge the grief of all within it and upon Middle Earth._

* * *

**_SA3441_ **

_Thranduil stood in his father’s place (it was still his father’s place in his mind, even after so much time had passed, and would so be until he was formally crowned king) at the head of the host of Silvan elves, before the broad base of the tower of Barad-dûr. For seven long years following the Battle of Dagorlad the Last Alliance had laid siege to the fortress, penning Sauron and his remaining forces in. Seven years of_ **_waiting_ ** _and_ **_watching_ ** _and_ **_dying_ ** _as the Dark Lord sent sorties to harry the men and elves, and had his army sling bolts and stones, arrows and fire in an unending rain of death to carve away at the forces of Light in constant ones and twos. How many among them had begun to forget the sound of wind through the leaves, the smell of fresh rain, forget anything good about the world they had come to this forsaken place to defend?_

_It was there before the tower that he left his forces, as watchful and ready as the scarred and soiled elves could be, to make for a low rise where stood several figures in still-gleaming armor. There Gil-galad had called the commanders to his side, at last tired of the wasteful lingering. They would ready for a final assault that was long overdue, though so too was it one their forces had no joy to know was upon them. Gondor had sent men to reinforce their ranks, only to lose Anárion, Elendil’s son and Isildur’s brother, to a crushing boulder thrown with damning accuracy from above. It had struck him on the head, crushing helmet and skull in one moment. Perhaps it was that loss that had spurred Elendil to begin to seek resolution of the unending siege, enough to press Gil-galad to decisive action._

_“To wait any longer will bleed our men dry. We lose a number every day, and Sauron will cull us by attrition if we dither further,” Elendil insisted to the gathered lords (though none but the High King’s decision mattered to the Army of the West)._

_“More and more frequently come the waves of orcs from the tower,” Gil-galad admitted. “Surely it is a sign that Sauron grows desperate. If we could only breach Barad-dûr, we would be able to end at last the efforts of Darkness to corrupt our world.” And so he laid plans for the effort, and sent the commanders to make their men ready. Having been asked nothing and invited to share or contribute nothing, as had been the way of things for every one of those last seven years, Thranduil returned in stone-like silence to join his people, to stand as the strong bulwark against their fears as well as his own._

_The attempt to breach the tower never came to pass. In a final desperate act, Sauron flung wide the doors of the fortress to let his forces flow forth like a black river against the Last Alliance. And then, to the horrible dread of all who looked to see it, the Dark Lord himself stepped onto the battlefield; tall and terrible, with a burning golden band wrapped around a finger of the hand that clutched his foul weapon._

_Not one could stand against the fury of Evil as he carved a path through the forces of Light. Each cleaving swing of mace or sword left three, five, eight fallen in its wake, a bloody path that curved and grew as he stalked the figures of Gil-galad and Elendil where they fought to push back the wretched tide of filth. All those who stepped forth to challenge him were swiftly broken, or slain if they were lucky, for the wounds his weapons left burned with a ceaseless and unholy fire, though that did little to stop men and dwarves and elves from challenging his might. Even Thranduil felt himself drawn to battle his way closer—the tiny, tightly-clutched flame of his fury and bitter anguish over Oropher’s death fanned into an inferno at the thought that now,_ **_now_ ** _was their chance to end it all._

_But Sauron joined in combat with Gil-galad before Thranduil could close the distance, and the two swept away in a vicious dance of death. The elf’s spear, Aeglos, sang as it struck and slid against the black armor of the Dark One, a counterpoint to the sharp and jagged screech of his fell blade as it rent flesh and metal and stone wherever it touched. A moment or an hour later Elendil joined the High Elf King, and their combined might at last seemed to match—or at least slow—Sauron’s fury, and Thranduil felt a thrill of desperation. To his eyes it was not enough, and his frenzied pace increased as he sought to cut his way free of the ranks of evil, and add his blade to theirs._

_And so he chased them, one small clash at a time and ever hoping that if not him, someone,_ **_anyone_** _, would reach them in time; he charged after the trio as their duel moved towards the slopes of Mount Doom, though the sheer numbers of the enemy’s forces kept him from joining and aiding them. At one point he realized that he was not alone in the attempt to reach their sides: Isildur, Elendil’s remaining son, and Elrond and Círdan, Gil-galad’s herald and lieutenant, were likewise striving forward, fighting with near-reckless intent, though neither they nor Thranduil could pull free of the battle of the greater hosts._

_It was Elrond’s cry that made Thranduil look up in time to see Sauron lift Gil-galad’s body from his feet, one massive gauntleted hand clutching the High King by the skull. Aeglos lay, dropped or snapped, beneath one of the Dark Lord’s boots. Before Elendil could bring Narsil to bear, a great roar filled the air—and Gil-galad’s writhing form was consumed in flame from the heat of Sauron’s hand._

_Stunned by the cruel death of his ally, perhaps, Elendil failed to dodge the mighty blow from Sauron’s mace, and the King of Men crumpled where he landed, body broken and sword flung away by fingers that could no longer grasp._

_Thranduil could only watch, grim-faced as Isildur at last broke free of the battle with a strength born of his fury, charging towards where his father lay at the feet of the Dark Lord. Orcs swarmed into the gap he had left behind, and the line of men there swiftly buckled. Sensing weakness, those foul foes that harried Elrond and Círdan turned to find easier prey, and they too sped towards what little remained of their fallen commander. For just a moment Thranduil pressed forward to follow after them...but then the cries of_ **_his_ ** _people joined those of the high elves and the men now suffering the brunt of the attacks. If their lines failed, his would fall next, and he forced himself instead to fight to where the hosts had begun to crumble, shoring them up even as he watched Isildur be cast down, as his father had been before him._

_And then… He had not seen exactly what had happened. His sword dipped to intercept a jagged orcish dagger aimed for the flank of a man, and then they all of them were thrown from their feet as a shockwave rippled out like thunder from higher up the slope. The raging cries of troll and orc and goblin grew higher, panicked, and before Thranduil even found his bearing, he knew._

_Somehow, at last, Sauron had fallen. Thranduil alone happened to rise, and knowing where Sauron had last stood, turn in time to look and see Isildur lift a dark severed finger—ringed with gold—from the pile of ash that was all that remained of the Dark Lord. So too did he see Círdan and Elrond lean close, and guide the Heir of Man into the gaping maw of Mount Doom, at last to be rid of the final tether of Sauron’s soul, and the final vestiges of his power._

_A terror took the dark hordes then, and what had been pitched combat became a harvest. The orcs and goblins and fallen men that had joined Sauron scattered, seeking desperate escape, and were cut down in numbers as they went. The wholesale slaughter was a grim business, but one that Thranduil took up with some small pleasure. Every orc dead was one less threat to his people, but with their master broken, those that escaped would surely wither into little more than faint memories, powerless and forgotten by the world of light._

_When at last he spied Elrond and Círdan striding out of the mountain, Thranduil let himself cease his reaping. Slowly he coaxed his fingers to slacken around the hilt of his sword, and the icy numbness he had worn like a cloak around his heart began to thaw. They had paid a dear price for this final victory, but it had somehow been worth it in the end. In time their people would heal, and the uncrowned Sindar King thought, perhaps he would no longer seek to keep his nation isolated as his father had done. It had been by working together that the forces of good of Middle Earth had won, after all—now they would stride forward together, united into the next Age, stronger for their—..._

_His keen eyes narrowed as Isildur stepped out of the shadow of the tunnels, and in the light of the sun, which had at last pierced through the veil of clouds over Mordor, he saw the glint of gold (he would never forget that unnaturally perfect warm glint) clutched tight in the man’s hand. So too saw he the way Elrond and Círdan did not move to bar his path, as he thought they surely must, but instead clasped his shoulders as he tucked it out of sight with the words “were-gild” and “owed to me” upon his lips, and moved together to recover the bodies of their fallen kings._

_Unknown to them, Thranduil alone among those present saw not only the will of Men fail, but the spirit of the Ñoldor submit as well. His fist, once slack, clenched around his sword’s hilt, tighter, tighter, until his metal gauntlet creaked, and he felt winter come anew to freeze his heart from all thoughts of offering alliance, to kill the hope for a reunified elvish people; to solidify his distrust of any other race of men or elves but those he called his own._

_He took a step towards them. Why had Elrond not forced Isildur’s hand? Two steps. Why had Círdan, who had seen the ravages of the War of Wrath, not demanded it be destroyed once and for all? Three steps, four, five. But already a number of their own men rushed to join them, to hail them heroes, and bear them away before his very eyes and out of sight._

_And so was evil allowed to remain in Middle Earth; to grow and fester, and in that moment Thranduil knew: in time, all dark things would again come forth._

* * *

**_TA2941, June 20th_ **

The thrust of his sword met no resistance from the spider’s carapace as the slender tip slid deep between its bulging eyes, at last stilling the hideous arachnid’s twisting and writhing. Its chittering cries faded, silenced, and with a sharp tug Thranduil freed his blade, scattering ichor across the dirt with a deft flick. It had been a small nesting—barely had the spiders begun to wind their webs before his keen-eyed scouts had found them, and it was no more effort to clear them out than to weed a flower garden.

Still, the implications were grim. The filth of Ungoliant’s bloodline had been slowly spreading from Dol Guldur for nearly 500 years, growing larger and more bold. Never had they dared so near to his lands before, however, and the Elvenking knew that this incursion would not be the last.

The darkness the spiders had brought to the once-peaceful glade they had been found and killed in stood sharply against the lush tones of gold and green Thranduil stepped back into as he left the delicate task of burning away the webs to the hunters he had brought with him. Once more bathed in light, he felt a weight he had not known he’d carried lift—and he clamped down upon the urge to shudder at its passing.

For fifty years, ever since the night he’d felt his heart renewed, the lands around his capital had flourished with the vigor of a second spring. Much of the old growth had given way to new: rotted portions sloughing off to let light and cleansing rain fall once more to the forest floor—and in some places that forest floor had been lost in darkness for hundreds of years—to coax lush and healthy growth to replace the old. Trees that had lingered in a near-autumnal state for centuries had been found with leaves of brilliant summer green, and wild berries that had long gone sour now grew sweet and plump. Even the animals of the forest seemed more lively, more numerous and active.

The effects had been quite noticeable, and the joy and life that the strange revitalization had brought to his people had cheered Thranduil deeply. He had not wanted to accept that it had been his own heart’s weakness, and the gray pain of his mourning that had cast such a pall over his lands. In truth he knew that he was not the sole culprit to be blamed, but he _did_ have a share in it. The darkness circled always closer—the spiders were proof enough of that, daring to spread further from their dank and wretched nests—as ever it had done, as ever it would do.

He snapped his blade into the slim hanger at his belt (no sheath had ever been made to match the blade, and the sight of bare elven steel, glittering and deadly at his side had been a useful threat against his foes more than once before) and swung with an effortlessness born of innate strength and eons of practice to the back of his mount. The rest of the hunting party followed a moment later, the faint scent of smoke and char lingering about them, though soon it would fade into the wind between the trees.

“They’re growing larger, my king, and more bold.” That was Tauriel, his Captain of the Guard, ever at his elbow with her keen and watchful eye. Young, barely a thousand years old, she had done much to distinguish herself. Her devotion to the realm had been one of the primary reasons that he had elevated her—and she had not misplaced his trust, had been ever vigilant, every trespass into his realm she saw and relayed to him. “They continue to come crawling from the south. We cut them down, and a month later more have appeared, spinning their foul webs and turning the trees to slow rot once more.”

In truth Thranduil was well aware of where the spiders came from; his heart thudded faster by shades as he recalled the place that had once been Amon Lanc, and now was Dol Guldur. Many times had Tauriel pressed him to array a force to clear the dark and ancient hill, and each time he had refused. When again she asked, now, “If we could destroy them at the source, it would put an end to the need for such hunts, and save our people the worry of them. My king, can we not—”

“No. That fortress lies beyond our borders. Keep _our_ lands clear of those foul creatures, _that_ is your task.” But that tower had not always been outside their kingdom. Once it had been the very heart of his home, his people. To deny Tauriel’s request came at the cost of pain—his own, and the future pain of his realm, for he knew the spiders would continue to seek to return the now-green lands surrounding his halls to the darkened mire they had been not a half-century ago. But unlike Tauriel, so brave and young, her soul unburdened by the horrors that could creep in true darkness, Thranduil knew (or at least suspected, as Oropher had an Age before) what lay at the heart of that black and jagged tower. Better a long and watchful series of battles they could win than to expose his people—who even now, three thousand years later, had not the strength or numbers they had counted in the Second Age—again to the horrors of Evil.

But Tauriel frowned, as he knew she would, and pressed him further once they had returned to his halls, his guard falling away to leave only the two of them beneath the spiraling and graceful carven stone. “If we do nothing, what then? Will they not spread to other lands?” Sometimes he forgot how very young she was. How light her soul, having grown to adulthood in the safety of their well-guarded dominion. Though it meant he would ever suffer to endure her challenging of his decrees, the Elvenking found that he could not quite wish the pain that came with knowledge of the wider world upon her.

Headstrong or not, she was still one of his people, after all, and her care and safety fell to him above all other concerns. As did that of his son, that of his gaoler, his guard, his cellar-master; as did that of every single elf that lived and breathed within his forest, from the very young to the very old. “Other lands are not my concern.” They had been once, and the memory of what the lives of tens of thousands of his people, the life of his father, had bought for their _concerns_ rose up like bile in the back of his throat. “The fortunes of the world will rise and fall, but here in this kingdom, we will endure.” His graceful posture belied none of the tension that had strung through him like a bow, taut and set to spring forth. He’d become very good at hiding his emotions in the last thousands of years, and there only had ever been _one_ who had been able to see through his cool mask of indifference, and she was not the elf who stood before him now, hands balled at her sides in frustration.

But as he raised a hand to dismiss her, he felt that anger, that tension he had thought he’d felt at her stubborn nature, give way to a strange sadness. A sort of distant melancholy that escaped the iron grip of his own control, and it took the stunned elf just a moment to realize that it was because the grief was _not his own_ , but rather had come singing in somber notes through that barely-there, faintly-recognized bond that linked his soul to some distant fate, that it had affected him so. It drew the breath from him, grief and a deep and open compassion he had not let himself feel since his early days come to press at his chest and throat, pooling behind his eyes.

With sudden haste he finished the half-aborted motion to dismiss Tauriel, turning his back and striding off in a swirl of his robes before she had even finished sketching a displeased but dutiful bow. His steps were clipped, sharp and harried as if something was chasing him, nipping at his heels, though he refused to _run_. He drew heavily now on the reputation he had built among his people: a good king, but stern and aloof, remote in his regard, and he drew that cloak of unapproachability around him like a shield. Those who saw their king striding across their path fell back into side rooms and darted to take alternate paths—immediately sensing that their company, even for a moment, was not desired. He stopped for none of them, but continued on until at last he left the stone halls of his dwelling behind.

Only then did he allow his pace to slow, his feet to stop, leaving him standing within one of the last rays of the setting sun where it collected, striking through the trees. A warmth he hadn’t realized had fled from him began to bloom again within his bones, and the faint rustling of the trees soothed his soul; the twang of heartache that had flowed into it from _elsewhere_ slowly muting, fading—replaced by quiet resolve, and the smallest hint of hope before he lost all but the faintest awareness of that secondary spirit linked to his once more.

With a sigh he raised a hand to massage at his breast, as if he could knead away the echo of the sadness that had passed briefly over his heart. Such moments where he felt the soul now matched to his begin to chime and glow with emotion were rare, and always somewhat jarring. Distantly and impersonally he had felt the reflections of the great joys and vast sorrows of that foreign spirit, though he had done what he could to resist the urge to inspect them more deeply, to let them fully wash over him. He had remained firm in his resolve against seeking out whom or whatever lay at the other end of that inconsiderably thin thread, and at times had even managed to push his perpetual awareness of it from his mind, to focus as he felt he should upon his realm and his people.

But that strange bond now wound about his spirit had been growing stronger of late. The barely-there string of it more notable, and the emotions he felt through it more often and with greater depth. Eyes shut tight against the fleeting remnants of their connection, he let himself retreat until his back pressed flush against the cold stone of his halls’ outer wall. “I do not wish this connection, but nor can I bear to wish it gone from me.” His words were softer than a whisper, meant to be kept for himself and none other, though none were near to hear them.

In truth the strength and lightness he had felt in the past years had contributed much to the well-being of his people. The forest flourished, at least where it was far enough from the touch of darkness to be swayed by his power alone, and the elves rejoiced to see their king grow less isolated, the winter of his despair thawing into a late spring. But that did not change his guilt for daring to let his heart turn towards this new bond’s invigorating glow, away from the withering cold and dark that had come with the end of his previous love. How many among his people had lost _their_ loved ones—husbands and wives stolen by war or battle. What right had he to find his spirit renewed, to find a chance to have what was meant to be a _singular_ bliss a _second time_?

And so he hid away when he felt the strings lashed to his soul begin to swell and sing. He hid his hope and greedy desire, he clutched it close and then he buried it so deeply that—he hoped—not even the Valar could find it. He was least among those worthy of this gift he had been given, but he could no less reject it than he could cut off his own arm. What he _could_ do was restrain himself from letting it divert him from his course, from consuming his attention and distracting him from his duty more than it already did. His heart might yearn to fill its emptied canyons and valleys where love once lay, but he had made a promise to himself to provide for and protect his people above all else.

And Thranduil, the Elvenking of Mirkwood, had the strength of will to see _his_ promise through. More than any other in Middle Earth, he would not fail in this decree. He would not fail again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So fun thing. Almost all the info about the Battle of Dagorlad and the Siege of Barad-dûr is, as far’s I know, lore-compliant. Oropher really did lead an early charge against the Black Gate alongside Amdír because they and their people refused to follow Gil-galad’s command, and both kings really did die. There’s no real record about how long they fought unaided by Gil-galad, but I can’t imagine it was only for a few moments, seeing as Amdír’s forces were driven all the way back to the Dead Marshes, and the sheer numbers the Silvan elf forces lost in the process. They really did siege the tower for seven years too, and by the time it was all done, Thranduil was left with barely a third of his people to lead home. 
> 
> The Great Journey mentioned in the first few paragraphs was the summoning of the elves to Valinor long long ago, before the Ages, back in the Years of the Trees. Some elves opted not to go at all, and others stopped, gave up, or changed their minds along the way. That’s what differentiates Silvan elves (stopped on the east side of the Misty Mountains) from the Sindar (made it to Beleriand and then stopped) and so on, and is also known as the Sundering of the Elves. Those that stopped on the Journey had lots of reasons for doing so, but it’s mentioned for many that they “fell in love with Middle Earth”, so I felt that to be forever parted from it by death—as even reincarnated elves remain in Valinor—would be upsetting. Probably those that were reborn didn’t mind, as they lived in paradise, but it probably felt like a terrible thing to those still in Middle Earth, that separation. 
> 
> In the books, no one but Elrond, Círdan, and Isildur saw Gil-galad and Elendil fight Sauron, or what happened with the ring, but the movie has them literally dueling in the middle of the armies, and it seems bananas to me that the hosts would let their kings and leaders just go over to some mountainside, out of sight of their men, and fight, and then wander off into an active volcano when there’s still a bunch of orcs and baddies around. So in that way, that bit’s been left closer to movie-canon than book-canon.
> 
> Isildur also just straight up was like “No, this is mine because my father and brother died” in the book. And Elrond just...let that be the end of it? Like hundreds of thousands of fathers and brothers and sisters and mothers of other people hadn’t also just died for this cause? “...Isildur would not surrender it to Elrond and Cirdan who stood by. They counselled him to cast it into the fire of Orodruin nigh at hand...But Isildur refused this counsel, saying: This I will have as were-gild for my father's death, and my brothers. Was it not I that dealt the Enemy his death-blow?'".—The Silmarillion, “Of the Rings of Power” 
> 
> As for the spiders coming from Dol Guldur being a particularly painful thing for Thranduil, it’s because Dol Guldur was built atop the ruins of Amon Lanc, which was the original capital of Mirkwood—expect to see talk of it or flashbacks to it come up down the line.
> 
> I snipped small bits of Thranduil’s conversation with Tauriel about rooting out the spiders from the script of the movie, as well.
> 
> Aeglos - Gil-galad’s spear, “snow-point/icicle”; it was well known to orcs because it brought “the chill of death”.  
> Amdír - The king of Lothlórien, followed by Amroth, and later Galadriel and Celeborn, though they ruled as Lord and Lady, not King and Queen.  
> Anárion - The younger son of Elendil, the rule of Gondor passed to his line. He is the many-great nephew of Elrond.  
> Círdan - “Ship builder”; he is so old that he may have been one of the original to awaken in Arda and thus not have parents. He had an amazing and long history, which won’t fit here, but he rules the Grey Havens, and makes the ships the elves sail West on.  
> Elendil - The first High King of Gondor and Arnor and first King of all the Dúnedain.  
> Gil-galad - “Star of radiance”; he was the last High King of the Ñoldor in Middle Earth, and great grandson of Finwë, the only canon elf to remarry. He led the Last Alliance, but not the Silvan Hosts.  
> Isildur - The elder son of Elendil, who cut the ring from Sauron’s hand and failed to destroy it. Rule of Arnor passed to his line. He is the many-great nephew of Elrond, and the many-great grandfather of Aragorn.  
> Narsil - Elendil’s sword, it was of dwarf-make. “Red and white flame”, it represented the sun and moon, the chief heavenly lights, as enemies of darkness. Later to be reforged into Andúril for Aragorn.  
> Tauriel - “Forest maiden”; PJ gave her three ages in different interviews: 600, 1000, and 1347. I went with the middle one, though 600 is canon, I think. 1000 is a nice medium.  
> Ungoliant - “Dark spider”; a primordial taking the shape of a gigantic spider. She was originally an ally of Melkor (before she tried to eat him), and is the mother of all Great Spiders on Arda, like those in Mirkwood, and Shelob.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely anxiouscrab, who is a treasure and very encouraging!

**_TA2903 (1303 Shire Reckoning), Mid-July_ **

_Bilba had always loved stories. As long as she could remember she’d been eager to hear more, learn more about the world beyond the quiet bounds of Hobbiton. She could happily spend hours at her mother’s knee, or lurking about with her Took cousins on the chance they visited, blue eyes wide and sparkling with wonder._

_The trouble with stories of course was that they made one adventurous. The young hobbit girl could quite easily imagine herself as the hero of any of the tales she’d been spun, overcoming trials and having a grand time without fail—as was often the innocent folly of youth to imagine. Real life, of course, was much more dangerous and prone to coming out not quite as well-planned as things did in the stories. It was that part of the lesson—when most hobbit parents wrapped up their tales with a “And that is why adventures are to be avoided at all cost” or a “And she was never seen again, and never got anymore cake”—that Bilba always seemed to miss, or ignore. After all, her mother never ended her stories that way, even if her father definitely did, and Belladonna had come out alright in the end for all her scrapes and near-misses, hadn’t she?_

_It really was no wonder then that a day came, when Bilba was not quite a tween but was no longer a faunt, that she set off to have her own rollicking adventure. With a tiny pack (full of quartered sandwiches and fresh berries and even a pair of buttery tarts, which were all very sensible adventuring supplies to a child) and her own small walking stick, she’d tied a green blanket about her shoulders like a cloak and gone trotting down the road towards Bree._

_She’d kept the path for the better part of the day before veering off, ducking between bushes and past trees—she’d sought about for elves there before, though with no luck—towards lands she was less familiar with. By evening the soft rolling fields of Hobbiton had given way to that sort of half-tame middle-land that springs up between more settled areas. It wasn’t hard going, and was still well within the Shire borders, but it seemed a strange and wild place to Bilba, oddly quiet with only the chirp of crickets and a few coos from birds settling into their nests to keep company. She spent the night curled up in the corner of a field beneath her blanket—for the cloak had become a blanket again after the sun set and the summer air cooled—gazing up at the star-filled sky in wonder, for she’d never been so far from home before, and the vastness of the sky made her feel both very, very small, but also surprisingly connected. And feeling connected made her feel very big and very brave indeed._

_The next day she’d made it to near where the East Farthing gave way to the North Moors, and she was very glad to have stopped to pick several handfuls of berries when she found them, because she’d already eaten half the sandwiches she’d had in her pack. Adventures, she’d been told, often meant skipping meals, especially if you were traveling with men or dwarves or elves (which served as a great deterrent to adventuring for most curious faunts—who would rightly want to go about missing tea or supper or second breakfast?), so she had cut herself back to four. She still had one of the tarts left though, and that cheered her quite a bit._

_As the morning of her third day traveling turned into daytime proper, she knew the edge of the Shire was in sight. That was her goal, and it sped her on to see it at hand. To see a land beyond the only one she’d known before, to maybe even meet a bounder! They’d surely have lots of tales to take back home and keep, like mathoms, but much better if you asked her. With her little pack hiked up to her ears, she sped towards the distant foothills._

_But it was not the bounders that she chanced upon when she came crashing (and probably singing to herself, if she dared to admit it) through the underbrush. No, instead she found herself stepping, one, two, three paces to stumble to a stop in the camp of three Men, in black leather and ragged capes, and all staring with an intensity she’d never seen before towards her. Quicker than she could think think to offer a polite hello—or perhaps run, which may or may not have been the smarter choice—they had risen, one closing in and reaching out to catch her by the shoulder._

* * *

_“It was a lovely tart, Little Miss Baggins,” the man smiled down at Bilba along the line of their joined arms, past where their fingers gently twined. “But perhaps the next time you see fit to wander from your smial, you’d do better to bring along something that won’t crumble to pieces at the bottom of your pack.”_

_The little hobbit pouted up at the man even as she let him lead her, taking three quick steps to each one of his. “Well I didn’t_ **_have_ ** _to share it, you know!” Still, she hadn’t minded, especially once the man—whom’d introduced himself as Arathorn, a ranger of the Dúnedain, to her great delight—had made it very clear that he was going to take her directly home, and would tell her all the stories she’d like so long as she behaved for the trip._

_Her parents, as parents were apt to do, had become quite upset when she’d not come home for supper that first day, and by the second day sent out a call for the bounders to keep an eye out for a wayward hobbitling. The bounders had informed the rangers, who hadn’t expected a faunt would make it the distance to the edge of the Shire, but promised to keep an eye out anyway, and it was quite lucky that they had._

_It’d been their camp Bilba’d come upon, and she’d spent a fine luncheon with them before Arathorn had taken her by the hand and turned her for Hobbiton. The other rangers had wished them well, and she’d left the larger part of what sandwiches she’d had left with them when she’d gone, seeing as they’d been such kind hosts and had welcomed her to share the rabbit they’d spit over the fire. She never had been one to turn down a bit of nice coney._

_Then Arathorn had risen from his seat to see her home. He’d tucked the rabbit’s cleaned skin about her shoulders to turn her blanket-cape into a real fur-lined cloak, and slipped a tiny dagger into her palm—”Just until we’re safely back within the Shire, Little Miss Baggins”—but it’d made her feel like a ranger herself, and she’d been delighted by it so much that she hadn’t even minded her adventure being cut short._

_The time had flown quickly, the distance it had taken her three days to cross handled in one and a half by his longer legs, and he carried her when she grew tired. All the while he whispered songs and stories into her pointed ears, or listened with genuine pleasure when she took a turn to sing her own songs: ones she learned from him, or ones she knew from her mother, or simply knew from she knew not where. And she ignored the strange stares of the other hobbits at the sight of her tugging a Man up the path to The Hill, because she was already quite used to being stared at._

_And so her first real adventure came to a happy end, with her head full of stories of wonderful lands and beautiful sights, and the friendship of a ranger, and her mother’s arms wrapped warm and snug about her as she and Bungo wept and thanked Arathorn, and bid him stay for dinner, and supper after that._

* * *

**_TA2941, June 20th_ **

Bilba sniffled, using the butt of her hand to swipe away the tears from her cheeks. She’d felt them begin to well, hot and potent as Elrond’s tale of that long-ago war reached a peak, and hadn’t thought to try to fight them off or hide them. It was a sorrow-filled story, a tragic bit of history that ought never have needed to happen, even though it’d all come out right in the end. She felt no shame in her emotions over the sacrifices of people long gone, and the bravery of some—like Elrond—who were still here. But to know how many had suffered at the hands of Evil, how many great heroes and lives had been lost… There was a reason such tales were rarely told in the sunny Shire lands.

“And so the Dark Lord was at last defeated, cast into the shadow from which he came. Never again will he darken Middle Earth, for his Ring has passed from the knowledge of the world.” Elrond finished, turning to her with a faint, almost fatherly smile. “Worry not, Bilba; it is washed out to sea, or buried so deep it will never again be found. And without it Evil can never rise again.” She felt Elrond’s hand, a gentle, comforting presence on her shoulder, and she reached up to pat it once, twice with her own much smaller one.

“Oh, I know, Lord Elrond. It isn’t that I’m worried, I just—I suppose that I’m just sad that it had to be done at all.” She felt another tear roll down to hang off the tip of her chin, and mustered a watery chuckle at how undone she’d become. “Gracious, it was an Age ago! I feel so silly, and I wasn’t even there like you were, but… I can’t help but think how much pain would’ve been spared if only—”

A great bellow cut her off and sent her leaping up in a fright, eyes still full of tears but wide, and head whipping around just in time to see Bifur and Ori charging towards them as if they were orcs or goblins, and not simply an elf and a hobbit sitting in broad daylight. The older dwarf’s salt and pepper hair seemed even wilder to match his snarling face, and Bilba took an unconscious step backwards, stumbling against the bench before Elrond once more steadied her. Thankfully neither dwarf seemed armed, but even Ori had managed to look rather ferocious, puffed up with a deep frown like his elder brother might wear, and hurrying along in Bifur’s wake.

For half of a moment Bilba thought they might attack, so fiercely were they glaring at her, but when they closed the distance she instead found herself grabbed, a mittened hand finding her wrist and pulling her flush to Ori’s chest. Her forehead clashed painfully with his chin—like stone beneath the ginger dwarf’s beard!—and she cried out, pulling away even as he maneuvered her, twisting to put his body between hers and...Elrond? She could feel the burr of his chest beneath his numerous woolen layers as he scolded—he was scolding an elven lord?! “—and you shouldn’t’ve made her cry!”

“Ori, Ori what’re you doing?!” At last she managed to free herself from the dwarf’s grip, looking around to find Bifur planted squarely in front of Elrond. Elrond, who’d risen to stand, arms folded placidly inside his sleeves, his face quite dour as he regarded both dwarves. He did not seem inclined to explain himself in the face of their behavior, and in all honestly Bilba didn’t think he should need to.

“Balin sent us to look for you—you’ve been gone all day, Bilba!” Ori was regarding her somewhat bashfully now, though she could tell he was still riled up from whatever had upset him so. He was looking at her like she was some skittish animal, at risk of bounding away if he even lowered his hands to his side. She huffed to herself at that, but managed to give him a reassuring pat on the arm, because really, she wasn’t some rabbit set to scamper off!

“That still doesn’t explain why you and Bifur’ve all but trampled our host!” She snapped, her tone one of practiced scolding, to be used on tweens or faunts who’d gotten themselves caught making trouble. “Bifur, please stop that!” She tugged away far enough (just barely dodging Ori’s hand, she was _not_ running away, thank you!) to reach for the older dwarf’s wrist. Bifur let her take it, thankfully not rounding on her as well, though he gave the elf a last snarl before he turned to stomp off, catching Bilba’s arm in turn and hauling her along with him. A moment later Ori had her other arm, and she was wedged snugly between the two, shoulder to shoulder as they stamped back towards the path they’d come up.

“Well, well you see, Miss Baggins,” Ori was nearly back to himself now, his voice losing all of its bravery-given strength, almost seeming rather embarrassed at the scene he and Bifur had made. Though that would be the day, the day a dwarf felt silly over their behavior! “Only, Bifur and I’d come ‘round the corner there, see, and… and there _you_ were, _crying_ , and that elf’d got his hand on you, and…!”

Bifur grunted at her other side, head nodding emphatically. The poor dwarf spoke not a lick of common (and she’d gathered from Bofur that it’d to do with the axe so alarmingly lodged in his head), but he understood it, and was in plain agreement with Ori. He growled something in their dwarven tongue beneath his breath, and Bilba didn’t have to speak Khuzdul to guess that it hadn’t been anything kind, or that she’d want Elrond to hear, given he surely didn’t deserve it.

Digging her heels in did little to slow their half-escorting, half-dragging progress, but it did enough to afford her a quick, apologetic glance back at the elf lord where they’d left him standing on the balcony. His eyes met hers without hesitation, and for just a moment she thought she saw the serious bend of his brows lift, the light of amusement there and gone again in his eyes and hiding in the corners of his lips. And then the dwarves had hauled her out of sight, and she turned back forward, sighing with exasperation.

“Poor Elrond. You _must_ know he did nothing to me at all, except tell me a story.” It’d even been a story she’d wanted to hear, though it’d been far sadder than she’d anticipated, to hear it as it truly had been, by one who’d lived through that dark time. Still, that seemed to reassure Ori, although he neglected to apologize for his or Bifur’s actions. Bifur of course kept right on growling under his breath, so Bilba patted his arm with another sigh—had she ever sighed this much back in Hobbiton? They’d meant well, likely, probably, and she supposed it was the thought that counted. It was a bit nice to think they’d defend her, even against an elven lord, if they thought she was being bothered. She hadn’t let herself dare to wonder if any of them had cared quite so much—but then, some of their actions had given her ample reason to think they didn’t, in recent days.

Together the trio of them made their way right back to the dwarvish ‘camp’, tromping back into the room they’d claimed just in time to overhear Fili and Kili reporting to Thorin. “—looked everywhere, the kitchens, the gardens, all those places she likes and we’ve not seen her!” Apparently they’d also been out trying to track her down, and now that she looked around, she could see that Nori and Oin were also missing, as were Bofur and Balin. She felt only a little bit of guilt over having apparently worried them enough to send out groups to find her...but Thorin _had_ made it clear that she was not their responsibility to mind.

The fact that he’d looked up rather sharply, eyes narrowing at the sight of her wedged between Ori and Bifur, glancing up and down and then seeming to relax at the sight of her intact and healthy, well! He clearly needed a bit of emotional adjustment, if you asked her, a nice settling cup of tea if he was going to change his whims with the weather like this. It was rather chafing to he hounded one day, ignored the next, and then tracked down like a wayward spoon that’d been snatched by a bothersome relative the day after.

“It seems the halfling has been found,” came the dwarf’s rumble, sending his nephews spinning with hair flying to see. Thorin’s own stare lingered as well, eyes hard, and she felt rather as if, now that she was proven to be safe, he felt inclined to blame _her_ for bothering to worry the rest of the Company.

“Bilba! We were worried the elves had made off with you! Maybe they thought you were a wayward elfling!” Kili’s relieved grin belied his joking tone: he, like Ori and Bifur, it seemed, really _had_ been worried. She supposed she could let being compared to a child go in the face of his clear relief—save herself the energy of wondering after him, to be better spent interpreting the continuing stare of their leader.

Thorin’s glare _did_ have the benefit of prompting Ori to unlatch from her side, though soon enough Dori’d filled that spot, fussing over her like a wayward lamb, and tsking at the faint lines of dried tear tracks upon her cheeks, which had gone ruddy at all the attention. “What’ve you two done to her now, hmm?” The silver-haired dwarf pulled a bit of soft white fabric—it would have given even her own left-behind handkerchiefs a run for its money in terms of quality, which wasn’t really at all surprising, from what she knew of Dori—and daubed at the swaths.

“It wasn’t us!” Ori whined, as if wounded by his brother’s accusation.

“Oh aye, it was that elf lord!” And when had Nori gotten back? She’d entirely missed him coming in and taking up a perch, half-sprawled in a windowsill and flipping his knives like a juggler for sport. “Had ‘er weepin’ in ‘is arms, didn’e?”

“What?!” She wasn’t sure which of the dwarves had yelled at _that_ mental image, though it’d sounded like it had been at several of them them at once.

“Knew we shouldn’ve trusted..” That was Dwalin, growling like a bear and scowling as if he expected to find elves closing in from all sides.

“What on earth did he do!? Bilba! You’ll tell us, won’t you?” Dori was fussing even worse now, puffed up like a broody hen, though his grip on her arm had gone tight enough to make her flinch.

“Making a little thing like her cry, it’s not right..” Barely a whisper, but Bombur looked more sympathetic than angry, wringing his hands and gone all moon-eyed at her, probably setting himself up to eat away his worries later.

“The damn leaf-lovers never could be counted on—!” Gloin, up on his feet in a tizzy and reaching for his axes, dear goodness!

“We leave by sundown,” Thorin’s command cut through the chaos, dragging the dwarves’ attention back to him quick as a flash. The stoic and considering look had gone from his face now—his eyes were distant but thunderously dark, and his hand where it had been upon his knee had clenched to a fist. “We need no help from such manipulative, venomous, and ill-meant sorts; we have wasted enough time. If Elrond means to torment a member of the Company—” and Bilba huffed at that, for Thorin himself had caused her far more heartache than the whole of Rivendell’s people combined, not to mention that the dwarves would call something like being served salads a _torment_ , “Then his is not the sort of assistance we have use for. Pack your things, and—”

“Now that’s _quite_ enough, really!” Bilba scowled, foot tapping against the stone floor and fighting the urge to roll her eyes at the dwarves, whom despite all rallying to defend her from the wickedness of elves, had seemed to have forgotten she was even there. “We don’t know anyone else from here to the Iron Hills that can read that map, and there are only two more days to go until the only time it _can_ be read, anyway. And _not to mention_ ,” she pitched up in tone and volume, swiftly cutting off the rebuttals she could see building just behind the dwarvish teeth and eyes. “Lord Elrond is only guilty of being a _very good storyteller_ , and nothing else, which you’d know if any of you’d bothered to ask me! Honestly, I’d think you could manage to trust him after all he’s done, putting us up the last two weeks as well as offering supplies and his aid with the map! And never mind the fact that you yourself, Thorin,” and the dwarf in question blinked rather owlishly at that, as if surprised that she’d dare to direct her ire at him, “Said not to go minding after me not a few days ago! Just because I _look_ ‘like an elfling’ to _you_ doesn’t mean I am one—and whispering about others is _rude_ , for that matter, not that I’d expect you to care, or listen to anyone tell you about what’s proper—and I certainly am at _least_ as mature, if not more so than some half of our group, as well as completely able to see after myself! I just don’t know _what_ got into your stone-hard heads to think I was in need of rescuing, when all you had to do was ask an elf, literally _any_ elf, where I was and they would have pointed you directly to me!”

She’d worked herself up into a proper tizzy about it all, being fully and totally finished with the silly stubbornness and inscrutable manners of dwarves. Her rambling reprimand had probably been building for some time, but she’d thought (or hoped) that the time she’d taken away from the infuriating dwarves would have prevented it. Alas, it’d only taken a few moments back among them to set her on pins and needles again, it seemed.

For a long moment after her rant the room stayed locked in stunned silence, the only sound her own slow catching of breath. Then, from over her shoulder, from the doorway, came the most unfortunately polite clearing of a throat. She pinched her eyes shut, one hand rising to knead the bridge of her nose, and took a long breath in and out before turning to regard their visitor; of _course_ this would be the exact moment one of the elves chanced to look in on them.

Lindir, as good as Bilba felt it was to see him, had simply _terrible_ timing. Still, the offer of a late luncheon went a long way to soothing the sense of dread that’d come from seeing Thorin looking fit to kill after her tirade. Maybe, she reasoned as she hustled along, as far from their leader within the pack of dwarves as she could manage, the dwarf lord was right. They needed to get _out_ of Rivendell before there was a proper Incident.

Or at least before she came to her senses and decided that living among Elrond’s people was a far more lovely fate than swanning off with a brace of batty dwarrow to burgle a dragon.

* * *

Bilba had kept close to the Company thereafter, determined to prevent any more eruptions or misunderstandings with their host before they were able to get the information they needed from him about Thorin’s map. It was a bit strange to be suddenly thrust back into the chaos that was living alongside thirteen dwarves—had they always been so loud?—but nice, too, after a fashion. She’d missed the clumsy, brash, lively sods more than she’d realized, and had almost forgotten how good it felt to be perpetually kept on her toes by their antics.

Of course, they all of them remained viciously guarded against the elves, and Thorin had responded to her chiding as was expected—he’d grown even more churlish, somehow, and refused to look her way nine out of ten times they spoke (though frankly to say they’d spoken ten times between her outburst and the evening the map was read would be an exaggeration). But the rest of that day and the next were almost fun, after a fashion. Ori’d built up a number of questions he’d been wanting to ask her, and Bofur finally revealed to her what’d happened to embarrass Kili so badly that first night—and wasn’t that a bit cute, the young fellow taking a fancy to an elf, she’d thought, not that she’d ever say so to the dwarf himself! Bombur had missed having her around to cook with, and even if Dwalin’d insisted on her finally having a lesson with her sword, it hadn’t been as horrible as she’d imagined it would be.

Still, she hadn’t wanted to leave Rivendell with any bad blood between the Company and the elves, and with the time of their departure no doubt coming, she had to take action. She made a point of sitting next to Elrond when he chanced to join them for dinner on the night of the moon they needed, and felt sure Thorin’s grip would snap his knife at the sound of her apologizing to the elf for the trouble Bifur and Ori’d caused on her behalf. Elrond had taken it in good stride, and pointed out that it was a fine thing to have friends who would so closely watch each other’s backs—Bilba hadn’t the heart to correct him on his assumption, but neither did the dwarves, so that was something for her to think about.

When at last the time came to have the map seen to, Thorin and Balin rose with Gandalf’s call. “Bilba, you as well, I think,” He’d added, startling her out of her post-dinner relaxation and drawing fresh scowls from a number of their Company. “Me?” Thorin had looked less than pleased at her inclusion, but not even he seemed willing to go against Gandalf’s word, simply turning away to march after Elrond with Balin and leaving her to rush to catch up on her shorter legs.

Out onto a rough-hewn ledge they went, flanked on either side by tumbling falls, and exposed to the cool night air. A table of uncut—save the flat top surface—clear white crystal perched at the center of the platform, and it was there that Elrond spread the map, his nimble fingers making sure to take care around the folds and worn edges, pressing it gently to the stone. As if by magic (and perhaps it was) the clouds above parted to let the light of the slender crescent moon shine down upon the map, and all those waiting with bated beside the plinth.

Faintly at first, then brighter came the hidden runes, and Elrond read them out. “Stand by the gray stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the keyhole.” That set Thorin and Balin to whispering between themselves, though Bilba had keen enough hearing (and undoubtedly Elrond did as well) to know what they were saying—dwarves were not the quietest nor subtlest, even when they tried to be.

“This is ill news. Summer is already passing, and we’ve a great distance to cover yet before Durin’s Day is upon us.”

“We’ll need to be standing in exactly the right spot when the time comes, or else we’ll have no way of finding the door, nor of opening it.”

Bilba could see the elf lord’s lips press together, thinning at the talk of their plans. There was no amusement in his eyes now, no; nothing but the reflection of the cool moonlight, and a resigned sort of wariness. “That is your intent, then? To reclaim the mountain from the dragon?” Though he seemed less than pleased to see the resolve in Thorin’s glare, still the elf made no move to stop him in retrieving the map, folding it hastily and tucking it into a pocket inside his vest.

“And what of it?” Thorin’s words were nearly a snarl, as if he expected the elf to spring guards from around a corner, to catch and waylay them there in the valley.

But Elrond did not bid them stay, nor threaten the dwarves as they so clearly anticipated. “There are _some_ who would not deem it wise to risk the dragon’s wrath. I would ask you take care, for more lives than your own, and more fates than those of your people may depend upon your discretion.”

Thorin had little to say to that, and once again took to discussing plans with Balin, the pair of them turning from their host, and Gandalf and Bilba as well, to move back down the path they’d come. Bilba could hear the wizard muttering to himself under his breath about the stubborn natures of dwarves—she was certain he’d rather come to regret being involved with such doggedly unbending sorts—before he too took his leave, his long staff tapping on the smooth stone of the path as he went.

“You’d think at least one of them would bother to say ‘thank you’,” Bilba sighed, crossing her arms. “I don’t know how you manage it, Lord Elrond—to stay so calm and put together. I fear I’ll have wrung a neck or two by the time this is all done, see if I haven’t.” She turned to give the elf her full regard then, mouth turning up in a smile as she reached out a hand. “You’ve got _my_ thanks, at least. For the map, for the story, for all of it. I don’t know that I’ve ever been happier than I have been here.” She took his hand when he gave it over as best she could, and the firm shake she’d learned from her business-minded father. “Or that I will be again, once we’ve gone. And your household has my thanks and apologies too. I’m sure you’ll be quite glad to be rid of us!” She was light-hearted about that, but entirely serious. No doubt the elves were keen to see the valley restored to a state of tranquil, dwarf-less peace.

“You have mine as well, Bilba Baggins,” Lord Elrond kept her hand in his a moment longer, and she did her best not to duck away from his searching stare. “You are very welcome to stay, if that is your wish.” That took her aback slightly. To remain in Rivendell was a tempting thing, and not an offer to be made lightly. For a moment she was sorely tempted...but then she caught herself shaking her head. She couldn’t. She had the quest and the Company, and...and despite the peace she had found here, there was still something pulling her on, drawing her further towards the east.

Seeing her resolve to go on, Elrond bent low then; still keeping her by the hand, and his other reached up, tracing across her brow to the corner of her right eye, and then back to tuck a stray curl behind the leaves of her hairpin. “You bring warmth and light wherever you pass, _nethig_ ; I would see that it sparks hope into the hearts of all you meet along your way, especially those most in need of its glow.” There was a strange emotion behind his eyes that she couldn’t place, and together the whole moment was...not uncomfortable, but perhaps too weighty for her to quite grasp, as solemnly as she received his words. A beat more and he released her, the tall elf straightening and turning back to gaze out over the valley. Far below, barely visible in the pale moon’s light, she could make out Thorin and Balin crossing one of the lower stone bridges back towards the Company’s camp.

“Keep your dwarves safe, if you can, Miss Baggins, though you must keep yourself safe as well; they will have need of you before the end.” His hand raised to his chest, and he bowed: the slightest nod of friendship, or kinship, perhaps, to see her along back down the path. She swallowed, took just a moment to gather her thoughts (which had been quite scattered by the evening’s events), and then mimed his gesture back as best she could, which was better than she’d expected to manage; something about the fluid movement felt vaguely familiar, like something she’d done a thousand times before, though she couldn’t remember one of them. Just one more thing to wonder over later, she supposed.

“Well, right then. That _is_ the idea, after all. I’d rather not see any of us end up in a ditch somewhere, or lost in some deep dark forest, not to mention eaten by a dragon.”

She almost thought she could hear a quiet chuckle from the Lord of Rivendell as she descended the stone stairs from the ledge and found the way towards the path. As she came around the bend and passed below where Elrond stood, he called out, loud enough this time to be sure she heard, “May the west winds hurry you along! He is waiting for you!”

At that she only raised a hand to wave the elf lord off. “Yes yes, I’m sure he is!” Indeed, she knew very well that Thorin would be champing at the bit to take leave, but if he thought for a single minute that she wasn’t making a last stop at the kitchens for supplies, well! He had another thing coming to him, oh yes he did!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arathorn - Technically Arathorn II, father of Aragorn II, who is the Aragorn we all know from Lord of the Rings. He would have been about 30 at the time he met Bilba, so not the Chieftain of the Dúnedain yet, though his father was at the time.
> 
> “Nethig” - “little sister”; it’s technically a bit of a play-name, often used by and to elven children. I guess you could say that Elrond’s being very lightly teasing Bilba by calling her by it, though it suits her quite well, I think. It also means “ring finger”, which is hysterical, given what we all know’s coming down the line for her in the Misty Mountains.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely Lumenne, who is a gift and a wonder! Shout out to our darling anxiouscrab, who is currently travelling overseas on an adventure of their own!!

**_TA2912, (1312 Shire Reckoning), February 20th_ **

_For the first month or so, Bilba hadn’t minded the snow. Still a tween, it had seemed magical to have everything turn white so early in the winter, even if that’d meant a few of the later autumn crops had been cut short, harvests pushed up to take in what the hobbits could before stem and stalk were buried. She’d been so caught up in snowball fights and making little snowhobbits with the Gamgees’ boys, tracing bits of poems or the shapes of flowers onto frosted windows with her nimble fingertips, watching the fat white flakes tumble down through the gray-blue sky, she hadn’t even noticed when the coating of snow grew to piles, mounds nearly higher than she could see over._

_And of course at first their food had been ample as well. An early winter, but fine enough for those hobbits that kept well-minded larders, and the chill of the air made every thick rich stew and hearty roast, each mug of spiced cider or cup of frothy milk and honey the merrier for it. Yule came and went, and the young hobbit noticed little different from usual with those celebrations, beyond that it took a bit longer to clear the path of snow, and that the chill settled in through scarves and mittens a bit faster than she remembered it had the years before._

_The trouble began when the snow continued to pile up into the new year, and the wind blew harsher and colder. And then the Brandywine froze. No warmer easy days came to thaw the driving snow, nor a bit of sun to cheer the slowly wilting hobbits. Even the Bagginses of Bag End had to tighten their belts as the long winter crept on. They’d stocked and set aside plenty, but rationing had been a slow thought and begun late, not to mention that several other families that had smaller pantries had come up empty, and Bungo and Belladonna had never been the types to let friends and neighbors starve. No early planting could be done, and the winter crops had been frozen and buried, and the few hobbits that dared to wander afield in hopes of finding nuts or berries came back empty handed...or not at all._

_What wood had been cut and seasoned was burned through quickly, and then this year’s cut as well. No one had anticipated the need to start round-the-clock fires in each smial as early as November, and as the winter dragged on and rumors of wolves in the woods began to circulate, more than one family turned to the sacrifice of less-favored tables and chairs to see them through the cold._

_By January the Bagginses had made the sensible choice of closing up most of the rooms in Bag End, relegating their days to the parlor and the kitchen, and bedding down together in a heap of pillows and blankets there. It took less wood to light just one fireplace, after all, and Belladonna did her best to present the idea as being something like camping out on an adventure, which Bilba was old enough to recognize as a sign that her mother was worried, and wise enough to go along with as if she were still a faunt, easily won by simple fancies like turning the dining room table into a fortress._

_By February things had become quite grim indeed. Once-rumors of wolves became known truths, and the sight of orcs on the outskirts of the Shire made the hobbits’ blood run as cold as the ice encrusting their smials. Unused to defending themselves, the Shirefolk were cut off from what few resources remained at hand—no more wood could be cut, and no more foraging for the last bits of edible stuff to be found. More than one smial had been broken into as well, though none would dare to try to find out what had become of those who lived inside. Those who ventured out were swiftly stolen away, or worse, left broken where they could be seen by those staring out through their windows, against red snow and black ice._

_Which was why it was all Bilba could do to keep from weeping as Bungo wound a second scarf about his chin and tucked it into the bulge of his vest (which had been done up over two more of the same color, with three shirts beneath, all straining inside his thickest winter coat). “Mother, please, you can’t let him…!” She’d sobbed, hands grabbing and clutching at the ends of his coat._

_But no help would come from Belladonna. Her own face was one of stoic resolution, and a terrible sort of fearful pride as she helped Bungo slip first gloves, and then mittens on. “I’m afraid I have to, starlight,” Bungo sighed, looking far more tired and lean than any well-to-do hobbit should. “It’s only down the hill, after all, and we can’t very well leave Rudigar and Belba and Herugar to freeze and starve, can we?”_

_Bilba gasped a desperate half-laugh, the choked sound as wet as her tears for all her nodding. Of course she knew they couldn’t just abandon Rudi Bolger and his family—and no one had seen smoke coming from their chimney in half a week, despite the door being well intact—but she didn’t want to lose_ **_her_ ** _da in the process of him saving them! “Shh, shh, I know, I know Bilba,” All bundled up, Bungo paused to pull his only child close, tucking her curls under his chin as he held her as tight as he could. “It’ll come out right though, you’ll see. Your ma’s packed up the sled, lots of good food and dry wood, so they’ll be alright, the lot of them. You’ll see.” As if he didn’t know that it was only_ **_him_ ** _she was selfishly worried about._

_He gave her a squeeze before gently letting her go, and Belladonna surged forward then to clutch at Bungo, turning just so to try to hide the blade she pressed into his hands from their daughter’s red and tear-rimmed eyes. Bilba gave him time to tuck it under his coat, sniffling and brushing away her tears for a long moment, though more fell a moment later to take their place._

_“Oh my sweet loves.” Bungo lifted an arm from around his wife’s waist to draw Bilba in, the three of them pressed together in a crushing embrace. If she just held him long and tight enough, maybe…_

_Belladonna pulled away first, moving with the quick pace of someone hurrying to get done something they’d rather not do at all to the front door, taking up the length of rope attached to the sled and gripping the doorknob. There was no reason to let what little heat the smial retained escape, so she did not open it, but her hand trembled around the brass of the knob, ready to do so. “You should go, my Heart, before any more daylight passes.”_

_“Yes dear, of course...just one more thing.” Bungo sighed, his gloved hands pushing Bilba back just enough to press a kiss to her forehead. “I tell you what, dewdrop,” His voice dropped low and quiet, not quite a whisper, and the old hobbit mustered a smile for his girl. “Why don’t I give you a riddle to puzzle over while I’m gone? Keep away those worried thoughts, and I’ll be back before you’ve figured it, I’m sure. That sounds like just the thing, wouldn’t you say so, Bilba?” He continued on, without giving her the chance to even nod. “So now then; you figure it out before I get back, and maybe you and I can sneak the last of the cranberries into a tart for your mother tonight, hmm?”_

_At Bilba’s eager (desperate, though she hid her fears behind a small but bright smile) nod, he began:_

_An eye in a blue face_  
_Saw an eye in a green face._  
_"That eye is like to this eye"_  
_Said the first eye,_  
_"But in low place_ _  
_ Not in high place."

_And before Bilba could begin to think of the answer, he’d given each of her cheeks a peck, and made for the entryway. The kiss he pressed to Belladonna’s lips lasted longer, and had all the sweetness that came with such bitter partings...and then Bungo was gone, out the door in a rush of frozen air, and down the lane. As her mother shut and locked the door behind him, Bilba flew to stare after his retreating figure through the window, watching it slowly sinking down and out of sight behind the high snow drifts._

_It would be nearly two days before Bungo managed to return to Bag End, and as he collapsed, teeth chattering and blue with chill into her mother’s arms, it was all Bilba could do to hold him close, take his icy hands in her warmer ones, and tell him, “The sun on the daisies, da…!” and beg him for another riddle, if only to keep him from falling asleep and never again waking._

* * *

**_TA2941, July 16th_ **

Thunder cracked outside the cave where the Company had hunkered down, and each crash shuddered Bilba’s heart as if it were a blow from a hammer. The sound, like that of stone splitting and grinding, was too familiar now, and the terrific horror of the giants’ battle too fresh in her mind to ignore. Each roaring clap sent her imagination scattering back to the long moments where she was sure that she and the dwarves with her would die. To the stark terror that had gripped her as she clung to the knee of the giant they rode; to the odd sense of calm that had come over her with the need to comfort Kili, who was far too young to die so afraid, and away from Fili no less, because perhaps in comforting him she could comfort herself; to the strange, almost hysterical regret that had come surging up from that fixed point between her ribs, because this wasn’t where she was _meant_ to die, she wasn’t meant to die _at all_ …!

Another boom. She trembled, arms wrapped tight around her sodden form, and pressed her back harder against the stone wall of the cavern, wedged as far as she could be from the mouth of the cave. “No fire,” Thorin had said, and so they’d simply dripped and shivered until they became warm enough to begin dropping off to sleep, exhaustion overriding terror for the lucky ones. Thorin had said other things too, more direct and less kind, after he’d dragged her up from where she’d hung over the edge of the cliff, and those words still hung about her head like a wreath of anemone, yellow carnations, and basil. “She’s been lost ever since she left home. She should never have left her precious elves—she has no place amongst us!” Her grateful thanks had died like ash on her tongue, and left her trailing after the dwarves in wounded silence.

Still, she had been more in shock than she’d thought, and it had taken until they were tucked away, _safe_ , for her to begin to process the depth of wounded feelings that Thorin’s careless comments had uncorked. Her initial flood of self-deprecating woes sparked into a small bundle of displeased and Tookish anger—she’d no more chosen to topple off the mountain than anyone in their right mind would, and she hadn’t seen _him_ hollering after Dwalin or Bofur for nearly throwing themselves over the edge to try to drag her back up. Of course she realized that if _he’d_ slipped and fallen (as he’d nearly done, the fool) then the quest would have been done for, and his people short their leader. If _she’d_ fallen the world would only have been down one lonely hobbit, who’d leave behind no grieving husband or orphaned children. So really, she could understand that him leaping after her had been unwise, but that’d been _his_ choice to make, hadn’t it?

It was a modest balm to realize that the rest of the Company had seemed equally taken aback by the vitriol in their leader’s voice. Bofur’d shadowed her into the cavern with a hand gently hovering at the small of her back, and Oin had insisted she let him look over her scraped and torn hands as soon as they were out of the rain. Even Dwalin had lingered in the mouth of the cave until he’d seen her safely ensconced and no longer about to pitch over the edge of the path.

At one point Fili and Kili had come by, flopping down beside the hobbit under the guise of thanking her for helping Kili to keep his head during the thunder battle, though she could tell that they were just as worried about her state of being as they were each other’s.

Well… perhaps not quite _that_ much. She’d caught the frequent glances between the brothers, as if they needed to be sure the other was still there beside them, and how there was never a moment where one of them didn’t have a fist clenched on the edge of a sleeve or a corner of a coattail, or wrapped in a loop of each other’s belt. Both of them seemed fit to ramble on all night, too, voices pitched just high enough to reek of barely-held panic and a shivering sort of dread, which she certainly would be unable to sleep through. It was strange to realize that they were apparently more frazzled about everything than she was, but then… they _were_ only just grown. She’d at least had a sense of indignant anger to fall back on; the poor lads were feeding off each other’s fear quite splendidly, and Thorin, in his gem of a mood, was useless to stop it.

_Or_ , she mentally grumbled, _cold enough to be unwilling to do so._

It’d fall to her to do it, then. “Come on boys,” She sighed, patting the stone beside her. “Maybe a story will distract your minds up enough to let a poor, bruised old hobbit like me get some sleep, hmm?” She winked as she said it, chiding tone giving way to light teasing. The lads needed to get their minds off their fears or they’d be messes come morning, exhausted and frayed; her anger had done the job for herself, but they were just lads, despite being older than herself. She doubted that intimating her disappointment and displeasure with their uncle would do the trick for them as it had for her, and bedtime stories had always worked to quiet her young cousins and nephews and nieces when they’d had chance to stay over.

It was a blessing that Thorin had already bedded down, his fur cloak drawn up to his ears and back turned her direction, she decided, because he probably wouldn’t care to see how quickly his nephews bundled to her side. They scuttled away just long enough to drag their bedrolls over, Fili nudging Kili into the middle of the three of them and wedging him so firmly against Bilba that she was half shoved from her own pallet before they got settled. She fought not to scrunch her nose at the feel of Kili’s damp coat pressed up against her… but then, hers was little better off, and their combined warmth would dry them all that much faster. She supposed it could be let pass, given the day they’d had.

With a last glance at the still-unmoving (hopefully sleeping) line of Thorin’s back—and a quick huff at the realization that many of the other dwarves had shifted closer, their conversations pitched low enough to hear her story over—Bilba burrowed herself a bit further into her blanket, and began to weave a story for them. It was a simple Shire story, light and silly, and one where everyone came home safe and sound at the end of the day trailing mud and twigs and fireflies, to warm hearths and warmer smiles, and cake after their suppers. There were no crowns to be won, or kingdoms to be lost, but not every story needed such weighty themes if you asked her. Sometimes, she was sure, you just needed a bit of sunshine after the storm.

* * *

She’d fallen asleep leaning back against the stone wall of the cavern, and she’d fallen awake when the floor dropped out from under her, sending the whole of the Company careening down into darkness. She twisted as she fell, hands and arms tugging free of her blanket to flail blindly for a handhold. Nothing but air rushed around her grasping fingers, and her heart throbbed, the blood pounding in her ears in a roar to drown out the screams of the similarly plummeting dwarves. Her mind, still half asleep, wondered if this wasn’t perhaps a dream, or if maybe the entire evening before had been the dream, and this was her just now falling from the ledge on the side of the mountain.

And then the stone rushed up to meet her, and the tumbling, toppling, rolling, spinning, plunging descent into the tunnels stole what little sense she had.

* * *

When Bilba roused for the second time, she was quite alone on the edge of the wooden platform that had broken her fall. The shattered remnants of some box or barrel—mostly rotted, and the softer for it—were piled around her rather like a bird’s nest, and part of it had fallen inward, covering her back and legs from sight. It took a moment to find the sense and strength to leverage herself upwards, but when she did she found that she rather wished she hadn’t.

Arcing bridges and rickety paths of cobbled-together wood and twigs and _bone_ spanned the length and height of the cavern, each rattling and swaying as a near-constant swarm of bent and crooked creatures—goblins, her still-muzzy brain supplied after a moment—clambered and crawled along them. They all were heading in one direction, and not the one she was in, which was something of a relief, but that did not make the sight of them any more enjoyable. In fact, they seemed to take no notice of her at all, yellowed eyes sliding over and then past her where she half lay, unseeing, her slow movements and innate quietness lending themselves to her covert attempts to assess the situation.

Only once the goblins had receded into the darkness and the quiet come slipping back in (aside from the faint and constant clatter of the bones hung from the bridges, which swayed in some subterranean breeze) did she dare to pull herself from the tangle of broken wood. Each movement was slow, appraising. Her hands and arms still ached, a reminder that her near-fall on the side of the mountain had not been so very long ago, but none of her fingers seemed broken, nor her toes, legs, back… No, she was somehow all accounted for, aside from the tender lump on the back of her head from when she’d landed against the stone slide. Even her hairpin had remained affixed somehow, and the cool feel of the slick metal beneath her hand gave her comfort, and a small amount of courage to move forward on silent feet.

Closer to the middle of the platform—which was rather basket-like in shape and function, the better to catch whomever fell in from above most likely—she found the grim proof that the dwarves had fallen with her, and been less lucky than she in remaining hidden. A number of discarded cloaks and blankets and packs (all torn open with their contents scattered about) lay strewn across the space, and trailing off along the ramps towards the direction the goblin hordes had gone. Her own pack was among them, turned over and emptied out, but she plucked it up all the same, stuffing what supplies had not been trampled or ruined into it before slinging it up onto her back. Her sword was still hooked to her belt, which was another great bit of luck (and so was the fact that she’d managed not to impale herself upon it while falling), but she also pocketed a dagger she found hidden under a crumbled bit of cram, just in case. She’d probably do better with the sword, all told; at least with it she had had one lesson, as opposed to the dagger. Not that she much relished getting into a scuffle with even the smallest of the goblins she’d seen, no thank you very much.

Her next task of course would be to track down the Company. Eru only knew what was to become of them in the goblins’ clutches, and while she had no way to know how to go about helping them, neither could she simply make her own escape without at least trying. And so she crept along, ducking from barrel to box to wooden post, doing her best to stay quiet, but move quickly. Even if she hadn’t seen which way the goblins had gone, her ears would have picked up the sound of their cacophonous gibbering without a problem, and they didn’t sound too far off.

Actually, now that she stopped to listen, they sounded like they were getting close rather quickly. Too quickly… and… from the other direction?

She managed not to scream when she turned about, hands fumbling at her sword’s hilt and only managing to draw the blade half way before the goblins were upon her. It seemed they’d been late to the party, and they’d nearly missed her in her haste, but the blue glint shining from the weapon drew them like moths. The sight of the three of them, boil-ridden and with skin sallow and warped like melted candle wax, leaping and bearing jagged teeth fit to rip and gnash, sent her dancing back in fear—right off the edge of the platform.

One goblin made a grab at her, and finding its twisted fingers fisting in the front of her shirt, it held on tight, meaning to haul her back up. It was a shriveled, bony thing however, and though she was slim for a hobbit, that did not mean she was as light as she seemed. Muscle outweighed fat, and she’d gained quite a bit of that with so much walking and climbing over the last months. For just a moment the pair hung, suspended on the lip of the wooden walkway… and then went over, sailing into a deeper, fouler darkness in a tangle of thrashing limbs and echoing screeches.

By luck, the goblin broke Bilba’s fall, going sickly limp as a twist timed just right sent it crunching between herself and an outcropping of stone. She still felt the impact, but what would result only in bruises for her was the end of the wretched thing. They rolled a ways more, though Bilba quickly released the (suddenly terribly wet and sticky) body to let it bounce and skid further into the low passage where they’d landed. Her descent came to a stop in the middle of a patch of thick, giant mushrooms, which she was sure would be horrid for eating, but provided something of a pillowed place to lay still and catch her breath.

_I’ve had just about enough of falling off of mountains, thank you very much,_ she mentally grumbled as she dropped her forehead to rest against the cool stone. Her breath was still coming ragged, adrenaline not quite done surging, but she was suddenly so very tired…

But lying about would do her no good, and sitting still meant she was coming no closer to finding a way out. Bilba picked herself up at last, dusting herself off and freeing her sword from her belt. It did not glow but very faintly—proof enough that the goblin she’d fallen with was quite dead, and that the rest of their numbers were far off, but not _too_ far—but it was enough for her keen eyes to see by. Gingerly she tiptoed past the dead goblin, half expecting it to lurch after her, and then turned to wander her way down the tunnel. There was no going back, after all; the way she’d come was too steep to climb. She had no other path to take but the one going forward.

Yawning silence greeted her from all sides as she walked on and on, the caverns branching and splitting, until she was horribly lost. The grim idea that she could very well _remain_ lost, there beneath the goblin town, until there was nothing left of her but bones for the bats to pick at, spurred her feet to move faster. The sound of nothing but the distant drip of water and her own breath, and her heart thudding between her ribs slowly grew to encompass her senses, and she felt herself shivering from the chill of the cave and from her own frayed nerves. It’d been so long since she’d had anything of a quiet moment, not while travelling with thirteen dwarves, and it pressed upon her like a weight, slowly wearing her down.

An idea struck her then—a horrible one, no doubt, but she felt near to tears with the misery of her situation already, and so it seemed instead rather a fine thought—to sing to herself to pass the time, and keep her spirits lifted. A song of birds in flight, then a song of springtime rain, and then a lullaby: one her mother had sung for her long ago, first in Westron, and then again in Sindarin. The sound of that tongue seemed strange in such a dour place, ill-matched, but it did much to cheer her heart, and so she sang on in that language, through song after song, and her pace increased to match her buoyed heart.

Ú i vethed nâ i onnad.  
Si boe ú-dhanna.  
Ae ú-esteli, esteliach nad.  
Estelio han, estelio han, estelio,  
_estelio han, estelio veleth.  
_Esteliach nad, estelio han.

A song of trust, and of love; a memory from she knew not where, she repeated it over and over, softly to herself as she went winding through endless passages and clambering over rocks, until at last she needed to rest, and sat down between several boulders to catch her breath. Still her song continued, for fear she would lose her nerve without it. She had no way of knowing if she was closer now to freedom than she was before (the cave remained as dark and dank as ever), but at least she was not where she’d begun. Not _there_ , with the dead body of the goblin splayed out, mangled and horrible. If only she could catch a whiff of fresh air, or a speckle of sunlight to point her along the path…

As if in answer to her wishes, it came: a flash of light, but not from above—from below. A reflection of her blade’s pale blue glow, bouncing and scattering off of something. She stood up with a start, though she felt silly a moment later—leaping at nothing, no doubt. Down she cast, looking for what had caused the glitter. Someone’s long-forgotten belt-buckle, perhaps?

From there, just a hand’s width from her left foot, it winked up at her. A smooth, golden band, flawless at a glance. The chill of the cave seemed to flee around it, strange warmth pooled in its perfect, rounded edges, and dancing with a low and constant, but source-less, light. As if it had trapped the flame and starlight it had once seen and kept it still, hidden within its glossy surface. It was an odd thing to find in such a place as this—it couldn’t be of goblin make, that much was certain, and these tunnels were too rough, too natural to have been worked by dwarves.

How then, she found herself wondering as she stared at the ring, had it come to be here? Come to _her_ ? Come just to be her _own…_?

A discordant twanging from behind her ribs gave her pause, and she startled, for she did not remember having reached a hand out towards the ring, nor having ceased in her humming, though silence now hung thick as night around her. There was something about the ring, something she could almost just remember, but—!

The sound of rocks scattering ripped her thoughts from whatever memory lurked just out of sight, fear spurring her heart to race, and it pounded the odd sensation just below her breast to silence once more. As she shifted to stare about, she did not notice that she’d scooped the ring up, slipping it into a pocket unconsciously, fingers moving blindly to button it tightly away.

She’d come ‘round not a moment too soon, her little sword flicking up, interposing between herself and a strange creature as it came sailing in a leap out of the darkness towards her. “Back! Stay back,” she cried. The tip of the sword drew a faint line of blood, and the thing pulled up short with a howl, twisting to stop its own momentum and trying to duck away from the point of pain.

“What is it, Precious?! It has a nasty bite, an elvish blade!” Pale, luminous eyes shone out of its wan face, like some monstrous subterranean fish that was generations away from any sight of sunlight. Upon all fours it crept, on broad, long-fingered hands and wide, strong feet, circling her like a curious cat kept only at bay (for the moment) by the shine of silver she clutched. “An elf, maybe, with a little elf sword?” it carried on, rasping with the same wet and wretched cough. “Not a dwarf, no; not orcses or goblinses neither.” It leaned closer then, until the point of the sword again pressed nearly to puncture it’s pallid skin. “Yeeesss, then it _must_ be an elfses, singing pretty elf songs, even though it doesn’t smell as nice—“

“I’m, I’m a hobbit, thank you very much!” Her outburst surprised herself somewhat, Tookish temper flaring again. “And I don’t care quite _how_ I smell after the day I’ve had, but I am Bilba Baggins of the Shire, and I’ll thank you to remember that!” Her mouth was dry, her lips sticky when she flicked her tongue over them to ease her words—when last had she had a drink? She’d sung herself nearly hoarse, and she had no doubt now that it had been her song that’d led the thing right to her. Fool of a Took _and_ a Baggins, she was! How long had it been trailing her, silent in the dark? There was no way to know the passage of time so deep underground (though some near-hysterical part of her mind suggested that any of the dwarves would have had a way to know, and really she ought to have asked them when she had the chance).

The creature, it seemed, was not so kind as to have only taken an interest in her for her singing, for it was eyeing her like a faunt would eye a pie left unguarded on a windowsill. “ _Hobbitses_ is it, Precious? We’ve never tried hobbitses before… Is it juicy? It is _scrumptious?”_ And closer and closer it crept, cracked and sparse teeth bared in a monstrous grin. Again she thrust with her sword, sending it skittering back, but she knew now with certainty that it had naught but ill designs upon her.

“Stay back now,” she fought to keep the quaver from her voice. “I’ll have no trouble from you, and you none from me,” It clambered around a stone, making her duck back a step and the sword jitter in her hands.

“No trouble to be eating hobbitses, Precious—it looks _soft_ , the nice singing hobbit does, not _crunchy_ like old goblin bones.”

The blade flashed as she swung at the creature, barely missing its outreached claw before it snatched it back, yowling and hissing like anything. “I am _not_ for eating, _thank you_! If it’s a song you want, you’ll have it, but nothing more from me!” It was the only thing she could think of, and she was sure the creature would rather have a meal—eventually she’d have to use her sword, frightening as that thought was.

But Gollum, as she’d come to name the creature for its wretched hacking noises, had been alone in the dark for a very long time. The bats and fish were poor conversationalists, and the goblins he came across were better bashed to bits than left a chance to squawk. No, Gollum had been alone with only himself for company for half an Age, and that made the offer of anything new to entertain him quite interesting. And, he reasoned, he could always eat the tasty-looking hobbit after he got a song or two from her.

“A song! Yes, sing us a song, Precious! We like songs—Gollum! Gollum!—songs about fishes and fat juicy worms and rain, and—” He babbled on for a while about the things he liked to sing about, but Bilba paid it little mind; he’d mentioned _rain_ , which meant he hadn’t always been down here, or at least knew a place open to the outside! That meant that she couldn’t be too far from the end of the place, and perhaps she could coax the odd and gnarled thing into leading her there.

“How about _I_ sing you a song, and _you_ show me where it rains, show me a way out of here?” And Gollum nodded along, gulping and bobbing his head. It was an easy thing, to agree to lead the way when he was already planning to pounce the hobbit as soon as her guard (and that blasted bright elvish blade!) was down. “Yes, yeees! We knows good, safe ways for little hobbitses—but sing us another pretty song, Precious! Sing for us...or we’ll _bash it_!”

And there was very little Bilba could say to that, or do about it, so she opened her mouth and sang.

For a time the odd pair carried on, Bilba’s sword ever at the ready, and the faint tunes of elven lays echoing about the stone. Gollum took the lead, ambling ahead on his horrible lanky limbs and then darting back. Sometimes he slipped out of sight for a moment, but Bilba was less foolish than she looked, and her ears were as keen as any hobbit could them to be—each time he reappeared atop a stony cropping or came slinking from the dark, he found her sword aimed his way, and was pushed back with a grumble.

For Gollum, it had been rather nice at first. The sound of elven songs stirred up memories from long ago, from when he was somewhere else—someone else. It had been a happier time… But realizing that, remembering that much, began to hurt, and it made him bitter. He had known nothing but dank and dark and gloom and hunger, and furious, possessive need for so very long that it made it difficult to remember any other time. His enjoyment of the songs swiftly turned to a sort of hatred, for her sweet melodies had become bitter arrows in the poor creature’s heart, and he grew to loathe the sound of the elven tongue, and the pain of those lost happy days it forced him to endure.

As she switched from one tune to the next he began to wail, howling and thrashing, and scrabbling at his head and ears. “It hurts us, Precious! Make it stop!!” And his torment seemed so genuine that it startled Bilba into silence, stumbling to a halt some feet back from the writhing creature, her sword’s tip dipping in uncertainty.

“C-come now! Surely my voice isn’t _that_ bad!” She had no clue what had set him off so suddenly, and was rather alarmed by the scene.

“Nasty, biting elf words! They hurt us on purpose, Precious; on _purpose_!” He was wailing like a child now, blubbering and flopping like a faunt in a tantrum.

“Hurt you with _words_ ? How silly!” She couldn’t imagine the sounds of the elven language being anything but lovely, but to her chagrin, the creature seemed quite serious. She felt pity for the wretched thing then, but a wariness, too—she had not meant to hurt him, but likewise she could not think that any _good_ creature in the world would so dislike the tongue of elves as to be harmed by it.

_Well, not counting the dwarves, that is._ She huffed, unable to ignore the humor that thought carried, memories of their feasting at Rivendell bubbling up, and then shook her head at herself, and the squalling Gollum as well.

“I’ll sing in Westron for you then, in Common, alright? There’s no need to pout like the world’s ending, is there?” She reached out, and with the flat of the blade gave Gollum a light swat on the knee. “Up you get, then; we’re not out of here yet, and my next song will be much better! It’s a riddle song, and just the thing for walking and wondering.”

Now Gollum had begun to feel more himself as soon as she’d stopped her elven song, and had thought up rather a nasty plan. When the hobbit crept closer—as surely she would do—to shake him from his wailing, he would bite her pretty head right off, and be done with it. He had rather had his fill of songs as well, and was hungry for another sort of stuff, but no matter how he squirmed and feigned injury, the hobbit came no closer. The pat of the blade _did_ sting, the elf-steel burning cold against where it had touched, though it had not cut him, and he yanked away, rolling to hands and feet, and furious that she had not dropped her weapon as he’d wanted.

He was almost unhappy enough in the moment to attack, to leap and bite and bash at her, but then—“A riddle...song? Precious?” Gollum was very fond of riddles, after all, and often passed time playing games of them (with himself, of course). This was just the chance, he decided, as she seemed unwilling to let her guard down. He would make a _game_ of the riddle, and win—or cheat—his way to a meal. “Yesss, Precious,” he purred, slinking closer, eyes never leaving hers, though he was well aware of her sword as well. “Bagginses sings us the riddle song—and when we guesses the riddle, we _eats_ it…!”

“And when you _can’t_ guess it, you stop mucking about and show me the way out!” Bilba snapped back, before her fear could get the better of her. She flicked her blade towards Gollum again, driving him back a pace...though not for long. He seemed to have realized that she was not quite so handy with the sword, and slow to use it as well, and the knowledge along with his eagerness to work his plan made him bolder.

“Agreeeed,” he rasped, clambering up onto a stone to perch, vulture-like and waiting. “Ssssing for us, _Precious_.”

And she did.

_I gave my love a cherry,_  
_That had no stone._  
_I gave my love a chicken,  
_That had no bone.

_I gave my love a promise,_  
_That would not bend._  
_I gave my love a ring_  
That had no end.  
  
_How can there be a cherry_  
_That has no stone?_  
_How can there be a chicken_ _  
_ That has no bone?

_How can there be a promise_  
_That never bends?_  
_How can there be a ring_ _  
_ That has no end?

It was a silly song, an old folk song that was often sung in the Shire, and to her the riddles it posed were not at all challenging. They were all common, simple things… But to Gollum, who had lived so long without a great number of the comforts of life, nor the company of a friend or family or companion to keep at his side, they were very hard riddles indeed. The tune was enjoyable enough, but he grumbled as he tried to work the song out in bits and pieces… at least, until the last part of the riddle reminded him of something _very_ important.

He didn’t need to answer her at _all_ , no he didn’t! He could just—! He made a show of mulling the rhyme over, gripping his hair and fidgeting about, making even more of a scene than was necessary, all to cover his hand’s movement towards his pocket. You see, Gollum had been reminded of something he carried by her tune: something that would make it very easy indeed to have his meal; something that was terribly, frighteningly precious to him. “Don’t know why anyone would _want_ a chicken without nice, crunchy bones…” It sounded stupid to him, but the riddle didn’t really matter, not when he could just slip on his Pre—

The air split with a howl, sending Bilba leaping back in alarm, crying “Goodness gracious!” as Gollum began to scrabble and twist more frantically, genuine distress and fury bleeding into his voice. “Where is it?! Where is it?! My Precious!! It’s lost!!” He leapt from the stone, springing right past Bilba without a glance and tearing into the darkness, still calling and screeching, begging his Precious—whatever that might have been—to come back.

As he slipped from sight, leaving Bilba to wait and wonder, she found herself sliding a hand down into her pocket, a finger tracing the smooth, warm band of gold that nestled there. “Such a strange creature. Really, I’m probably better trying to make my way without him.” She could almost imagine she heard a faint whispering sound as well without him carrying on, her sharp ears drawing her step by step away from where Gollum had left her. Yes, she could certainly hear noises now ahead, though they were still quite faint. A lucky break, this was, and not one she was keen to waste. Then she just had to find her dwarves, who hopefully had not been eaten by the goblins, and get them free of this place—really, she huffed, drawing the ring into her palm and tugging it free to admire it as she squirmed through a gap in the rocky wall, she deserved a fine souvenir like this, and a nap besides for all her trouble.

The thought of keepsakes made her pause, now well out of sight and hearing of the still-frantic Gollum, and she eyed the ring with mild interest. It was wholly unremarkable… but the longer she looked, the more it seemed rather… nice. Pleasing in its shape and form, utterly perfect, with no mark of craftsmanship upon it, no seams or dents from the years it must have seen. It was terribly lovely… Quite… precious, even. Exactly the fine sort of treasure to keep for herself after all was said and done…

If pressed, she later would have claimed it was a simple whim that made her slip the ring onto her finger. It nestled snugly down to the base of her left index, sliding pleasingly to rest exactly where it was meant to be… And she was cast from the world, into shadow and wind, her ears filled with a never-ending keen from far away and inside her head all at once, which blessedly modulated down from a roar to a constant whisper after a moment. She stumbled from her feet, falling back in confusion and awe at the sight of the world changed before her eyes. It was as if even the stone around her had become made of mist, the edges and shapes wisping away in an ever-swirling torrent.

A sharp tug behind her sternum nearly made her faint, and a beat later followed the sensation of fire blazing out from her chest in fine golden sparks along a line that stretched in two directions: what she knew somehow to be both east and west. To the east she could not see, but felt somehow with more surety than she had through all her life, the thread that bound and pulled her ever on. Where it led she did not know, nor would she, as the blaze along that line faded to silver, to white light and ended with a whisper so quiet she could not tell if it was cruel or kind.

But to the _west_. The other half of the string, which she had only felt flare and tug once or twice in her life, the last of which had been in that moment in her parlor when Bofur had spoken of dragonfire and she’d had such horrible thoughts of _burning, melting_ … The sparking fire swarmed along that thread, glowing brighter, brighter, yet brighter still, before it rebounded, lancing back into her chest in a surge of energy that left her gasping and reeling. She slumped against the stone wall, one hand holding her upright and the other covering her mouth to muffle her racing breath as the crackling sensation wound through her limbs.

Not a moment too soon had she silenced herself, for a beat later she saw the now-shadowy figure of Gollum come bounding through the gap she’d slipped through only moments before. He was still frantic, wide-eyed and raving in his hysterics, and for a moment she was sure that she was done for as he wheeled towards the corner she hunkered in. Those luminous eyes met hers...and then drifted away, sliding like water off a duck’s back, unseeing and unaware. He howled his agony, the sound withering to a pitiful whimpering before he scrambled on, head low as he scoured the ground for whatever it was that he sought.

_How on Arda did he miss me?_ She stared after the harsh bow of Gollum’s bent back as he at last passed around a turn in the tunnel and away. _It’s not as if I’m invisible…_ Her heart was still racing, and the fluttering pulse that continued to pool that strange, nearly uncomfortable heat into her chest flickered, licking down her arm to her hand where sat the ring, drawing her gaze down with it.

In the blowing, misty version of the world that she had fallen into the band around her finger burned as bright as the sun, golden and terrible, flaring brighter with every pulse of energy through her body. _The ring…?_ She had heard of magic rings before, of course, but never dreamed to encounter one. With a deft twist she freed it from her finger, wincing as the thread of vitality that had buoyed her was sharply severed, like a tap run dry, its torrent reduced to a trickle. Immediately the odd wispiness of the world resolved back into hard lines and solidity, the whispers (she had nearly forgotten them until their absence reminded her) ceasing, and she was alone save for the distant echoing of Gollum’s cries...and beyond, fainter but there, the clear clamor of what might have been battle—which she could only hope meant her dwarves were near at hand.

Without thought she lurched forward, honing in on that sound and moving towards it. A sudden scrabbling, racing back up the tunnel towards her was the only warning she had that Gollum was fleeing away from that same noise she was seeking out, and she jammed the ring back onto her finger, flinching against the jolt of fiery warmth and energy lancing back into and through her, and pressing to the side of the tunnel just in time for him to come racing past, his pale sunken chest heaving and eyes alight with the madness of fear and grief. Once more he failed to see her, solidifying in her mind that yes, this must be one of those fabled magic rings. It was faintly unpleasant to wear...but definitely useful, and she would come to find it marked a key turning point in both her career as burglar, and in her life.

It was a gift worth great consideration, but she had no time for it in the moment. Gollum could return at any moment, though he’d seemed to have quite forgotten her in his frantic search...and she could hear the shouting louder now, and recognized with a burst of relief the voices of Dwalin, Gloin, and even Gandalf (and when had he come back?) echoing off the stone. She broke into a run through the hazy, gusty alter-world, clambering over stone and under ledges, beaming when she rounded a corner to the sight of daylight—blessed daylight!—spilling into the cave.

* * *

As far away as the moon and back, in a quiet and all but forgotten corner of Valinor, the glowing spirit of Mindonel collapsed to the ground for the second time that day, a voiceless cry of confusion and...not pain, for there was no pain that could touch her there beyond the veil of death, but something akin to it, rippling the tall grasses around her. The slender thread that had been spun out from herself the day she’d dared to touch the unborn hobbit’s soul, that joined them still and ever would, was blazing bright, white-hot and effulgent, and drawing with every beat of Bilba Baggin’s heart while she wore the ring more and more of the elf’s own strength, her own immortal light away through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rudigar Bolger, his wife Belba Bolger (nee Baggins), and their son Herugar are all canon, and time-appropriate, though they probably would have lived near to Budgeford in East Farthing, closer to The Water than The Hill, and not in Hobbiton.
> 
> Bungo’s riddle is one of Bilbo’s riddles from his scene with Gollum in the book. It didn’t make it into the movie, and he supposedly makes it up on the spot, so I snatched it up to use here. Who knows?Maybe Bilbo only thought he made it up, as he was probably quite panicked at the time!
> 
> Anemone (when used negatively) indicates fading hope and a feeling of having been forsaken. Yellow carnations symbolize disdain, rejection or disappointment. Basil can sometimes symbolize love, but here it has the older meaning from the ancient Greeks and Romans—hatred.
> 
> Bilba’s elvish song is ‘Evenstar’ from The Two Towers. It plays as Elrond speaks to Arwen about leaving Middle-earth and Aragorn for The Undying Lands. Translated and in short, it’d be something like:  
> This is not the end, it is the beginning.  
> You cannot falter now.  
> If you trust nothing else, trust this—  
> —trust love.
> 
> Bilba’s Riddle Song is a variant version of “The Riddle Song”, also known as "I Gave My Love a Cherry", which is an English folk song, apparently a lullaby, which was carried by settlers to the American Appalachians—which happens to be where I grew up! For the record, a cherry with no pit is a cherry blossom, and a chicken with no bones is an egg.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely Lumenne, who is a gift and a wonder! Shout out to our darling anxiouscrab, who is currently travelling overseas on an adventure of their own!!

**_FA583_ **

_For the last time, perhaps, Thranduil paused in his march to turn and look back over the River Gelion, to Estoland and beyond it. There, little more than a faint line of smudged green and gray, he could just make out what remained of the forested kingdom of Doriath. Long lay it abandoned; the halls of Menegroth emptied by the hands and blades of those he had once called_ **_kin_** _, though to continue to name them so was a bitter thing indeed—but it mattered little now._

_Death and the sea had come to claim that land, and all around as well, uncaring of the burden of history that weighed upon it. His gaze dragged across the tops of trees to the wind-blown grasses, tracing the rivers and streams, and rolling hills and ridges that encompassed all he had ever known of the world. He could feel its end creeping closer even now, beneath his boots: the slow, ceaseless, inexorable slide of the stone as it ground down into the seabed, one hair’s breadth at a time._

_Much of the land had been rent and broken by the clash between Morgoth’s forces and the Hosts of Valinor; the land was scarred, ravaged by the armies of light and dark as they wrought their wrath upon each other. He had hoped, once, that in time the land would recover, and be again as he knew it in his childhood. Be lush and green, safe in its isolation, pristine and in the spring of its glory. But the damage was too great, and the price now must begin to be paid before the fighting was even done—and his home, the land his people had called their own since the days of the Great Journey, would be lost forever below the waves until the unmaking and remaking of the world._

_If he tried, he could just make out the gap between Andram and Amon Ereb, through which his people had come as they skirted around the dark forests of Taur-im-Duinath, leaving behind their second home, which they had only just begun to build at the Mouths of Sirion. He had not held the same love for that reedy, marshy realm as he had for the girdled lands of Doriath, for all that he had begun to think it could be home… Alas, for again had come the sons of Fëanor, and left little choice in flight to them, nor to the numerous other refugees—both elves and men who had dared to resist their wrath—who had already once fled the horrors of Morgoth’s armies. There was nowhere safe left in Beleriand to go to. The cities of Nargothrond, Eglarest, and Gondolin were no more, and a number of other smaller dwelling places besides. All gone. All lost._

_Caught in the web of somber remembrance, Thranduil let a hand dip into one of the many pouches he carried at his side, his fingers dragging over the matched pair of woven metal pieces resting there. The elves needed for little they could not find along their way, but not a single one of them had left empty-handed; the mementos and heirlooms of their people were not so quickly cast aside, and Thranduil was perhaps chief among them in his private greed for such things._

_His fingers followed the lines of twisted gold and silver; lines he knew by heart, for he had been the one to bend and shape them. He could see their form in his mind’s eye, and looking back over the land, imagined how perfectly they would overlap with the rivers he had since crossed. That had been his intent, after all—to capture some part, some shade of his world before it was lost, to be carried with him as they took flight. Upon those branching streams of precious metal he’d placed the leaves of Doriath, to remind him of the shelter and plenty the forest had once given them. At the spot they joined, chips of white crystal, a pale imitation of the glory of the stars as they had been: unfaded by the harsh glow of war-fire, in a sky free of the choking smog of destruction. The elves called starlight memory, and so he thought to have bound some of his own into the pieces, his memories of Beleriand as it had been...and not as it was._

_Now the land itself was ruined, slowly buckling under the strain of fire and hatred. They none of them could remain there, nor anywhere to the west of Ered Luin, at the very least. The war—it was being called the War of Wrath—raged on, but his father, Oropher, had within him no desire to remain, nor to involve himself with a conflict that had been thrust upon their people, and was of no making of their own. Others would surely depart Beleriand in their own time and by their own means from the Havens; Oropher would not wait for further ruin and suffering to come to those who looked to him to lead them. Today, this hour, the remnants of Sindar people he led would pass through the chasm which the War had cleft in the range of Ered Luin. The once unbroken chain of peaks lay split in twain, the newly-opened valley speeding their course from the doomed land where they had dwelt for longer than many among them now could recall._

_For those few who did remember—those that had awoken on the shores of Cuiviénen or been born along the way from there—the path ahead was known, and perhaps that eased their passage east. For Thranduil however, it was the end of all he had known of the world. Beyond those mountains (which had only ever been a distant sight before; he had not expected them to reach so high) he had seen nothing of Middle Earth, for he had been born in Doriath, in Menegroth itself, just over 500 years ago. He was not the youngest of the elves now upon the dwarven road, but he was young enough to find his heart troubled by uncertainty as he forced his gaze back to the front, and away from the emptying realm of his childhood. His hand, which had gripped so firmly about the jeweled treasure he carried that its golden leaves had left their shapes upon his palm, unclenched and moved to offer thoughtless assistance to another elf come up the steep path beside him._

_He held no love for the lands they would now depart to—he had never seen them, and did not know them or their wonders—but to remain would serve no purpose. For all that it pained him to turn his back at last upon Beleriand, as he resumed the slow ascent up and through the Blue Mountains, he knew that the actions and desires of a single elf had little power to change the fate of the world._  

* * *

  ** _SA1603_**

_Thranduil’s steps echoed through the silent, empty halls of Amon Lanc as he wound his way to one of the broad terraces that lined the stronghold, whereupon he could look out over the vast sea of rippling green treetops that were Eryn Galen—Greenwood the Great. Down below and to the north, he knew, his people were on the move, though it was only his awareness of their intended route that allowed his ears and eyes to find them. They traveled quickly but stealthily, arms full and backs strapped with bundles and packs. Not in twos or threes did they go, but en masse, for the people of the Greenwood had taken flight at the behest of their lord—now called king, these last thousand years—his father, Oropher, who had with grim resolve compelled the elves of the forest to abandon their capital upon the bald hill._

_A darkness had returned to the world, he had said, and there were few among the Sindar who could not feel the change that had come with it in the air and water: a creeping shadow of the old horror that had spread over Beleriand an Age ago. It had seemed fractionally small in power, at least at first… but then it had begun to grow. From the southeast it sprang, beyond the mountain walls of Ered Lithui and Ephel Dúath, in Mordor’s dark lands. Oropher had fixed a keen eye upon that realm, wary of the return of Morgoth’s most trusted lieutenant, for there lay no more than 400 miles between his capital and the slowly climbing tower that would come to be known as Barad-dûr._

_And then from the west, beyond the Misty Mountains, came word of the dark lord’s deception of the Ñoldor of Eregion; he had come to them as Annatar, and guided their hands in the crafting of Rings of Power, only to betray them. The world itself had shuddered at the forging of the One Ring on that dark day, trembled in the shadow of the sensation of booming, terrible glory at the heart of Mount Doom as it was pulled from the flame, and the elvenking knew the time of peace was over._

_War loomed once more, and Oropher saw what was to come for his people if they remained there in the south of the Greenwood. The path between Mordor and Eregion would bring all manner of foul evil within sight of the forest, and he could not suffer his people to be so endangered. Again they must abandon their home—their sanctuary, built in kinship alongside the Silvan elves the Sindar had come to rule, which had been the joy and pride of their united peoples—and draw away, towards the north, and the shelter of Emyn Duir there. No soul within their realm had done aught to earn the violence that would beset them should they linger within sight of Sauron’s forces when they came (as Oropher was certain they must), but the dark things of the world would not differentiate between one elf and another—nor did the forces of the Greenwood number great enough to stop the tide of darkness, or desire to spend their blood and lives in a second conflict that was not of their own making. Those few that had lived in Doriath recalled well the pain that evil could visit both upon the land and the hearts and bodies of those who lived under its shadow. With great haste they had begun the exodus, and now only the stone halls and spires of the capital itself remained: a towering but barren monument of their passing; once the very heart of their realm, now left an empty shell bereft of life and joy._

_Thranduil despaired to know that time was short before they must away, and he at long last pulled himself from the sight of his departing people, descending from the terrace in long, sure steps. Down the stairs and through winding halls he went, blue eyes bright and roving as he sought to memorize the shape and curve of every way and path. Strong, slender hands trailed railings, up archways and under lintels, to snare and hold their feel and shape, for a somber sense of doom had come upon the elven prince—how long until he walked these halls again, if ever? A day? An Age?_

_A rushing, almost frantic need to leave the place his father had built came upon him suddenly, the weight of his grief compounding and putting Thranduil to flight. Around corners and down passages; down, down, ever_ **_down_ ** _towards the gates to the city which lay flung open did he speed, his white-blond hair flying behind him like the train of a mourner’s veil. In his great haste he nearly did not see the figure step out onto the path in front of him, and his plunging pace stumbled to a halt as she threw up her hands—but not to shield herself, only to steady him as he drew up mere inches from her, fighting to school his expression to one of calm surety, and not the wide-eyed stare of the wild and hunted thing he had been a moment before._

_“Th-thranduil, my lord…!” A breath of relief passed through her slender frame, a faint and weak smile shining from the corner of her mouth as her surprise was overtaken by recognition—a relief he shared as he realized whom he’d come upon. With a humble sort of grace she stepped away from him, her hands dropping to fold before her. “I am glad to have found you,” she continued after a moment, “Your father has summoned you to join him. He fears that you would linger here overlong.” Her head bowed in deference, the elf maid stepped further aside to let him pass—though he did not, and instead found himself drawing closer to her, though not so close as to close the distance entirely._

_It was the first step of a dance they had done many times before over the centuries, the two of them—him ever trying to draw her from her quietly dutiful nature, and her bashfully sidestepping him at every turn—and it was that familiar sense of routine that at last began to draw him up from the pit of his sorrows, his heart lightened merely by her presence._

_“You have my thanks for your swift delivery of his message, Mindonel,” he murmured, tone even and soft. Of all of those whom he might have met within the emptied halls, she was his first and last choice, for he had found himself drawn to her over the years, and he knew she was to him… but he had never before let her see the sorrows of his heart, and it made him all the more keen to bury them and keep their weight from this rare stolen moment. “I will go to him… and perhaps you will accompany me?” He found it would be sweet as well as bitter to depart arm in arm with her, if he must depart at all. With a slight bow, he offered his hand—an offer which he had made, and she had rejected, so many times before—the faintest of smiles curling his lips upwards._

_And then dropped to a frown, for she did not reply nor move away, but instead took his hand in her own, clinging to it, to him, as if he were her lone lifeline and she adrift on a tossing sea. There was a sorrow in her, he realized; a sadness he had not previously caught in the over-bright shine of her eyes and the way her body leaned away from the gate, as if she herself desired to linger within the abandoned city even after his departure. “My lady?” His fingers tightened about hers, a soft squeeze he hoped would give her some comfort. Their dance could wait—his heart ached at her sorrow and he felt his cool demeanor crumble, falling with the first of her tears. “Please, muin nín, I would not see you weep for anything. What is it that pains you so? I would share this burden, if you would but let me.” With his other hand he wiped the tears from her cheeks, and felt his own pool, warm and warning, behind his eyes._

_A soft, wet chuckle escaped her then, and a helpless shake of her head as she tucked her chin lower, half turning from him as if to hide her weeping. “I am sure that my grief is but a... a pale imitation of your own, my lord. To be leaving this place. It is the only home I have known...” Her eyes were radiant in their heartache, alight with memory and sadness, painfully beautiful for him to look upon before she cast them down once more. “You surely have greater things to worry after than the soft heart of a simple messenger that has broken so easily, my lord.”_

_“Perhaps,” Thranduil admitted, though he only drew her nearer, until she muffled her lamentations in his chest, and he wrapped an arm about her to hold her close. “However… I do not think it wrong to mourn that which has been lost. What has been taken from you.” His own tears fell unseen, vanishing into the gold of her hair. “Nor do I think it beneath any elf—even a king of elves—to suffer his people to sorrow when he has the power to ease their broken hearts.” He pushed her lightly from him, and lifted her chin with a touch until her watery eyes found his, and widened to see him weeping too._

_From a pocket deep within his robes he drew a tangled creation of gold and silver streams, adorned with glittering leaves and one pale blossom of finest mithril. With deft hands he tucked it into her hair, over her left ear, and he could not help but smile to see it there. “When Beleriand fell, I made these to remember my home there,” he explained. “One was lost to me long ago… but this one I have kept. And now, meleth nín, I give it to you, that you might wear it, and remember_ **_this_ ** _place.” His thumb brushed over the silvered flower’s petals a final time before he released her, save for her arm, which he tucked into his own._

 _“One day,” he reassured her as together they departed the city, “We will return here. My first home may be long lost beneath the sea, but I promise this to you: you will see Amon Lanc again.” Though it pained him to abandon that place, seeing the tender and hopeful smile upon Mindonel’s face as she leaned into his side, her hand gently caressing the hairpin he had gifted her, made him think that, perhaps, the actions and desires of a single elf did have power enough to change the fate of the world… Or at least the worlds of those that mattered to them._  

* * *

 

**_TA2941, July 16th_ **

Beneath the boughs of northern Mirkwood, in firelight and starlight, the elves of the forest danced. They sang and played at sport and game, their celebration stretching from dusk until dawn as they reveled in the world around them, for it had been fifty years now that their wood had been once more so welcoming and wondrous to behold, the dark driven back to the southern half of their land, and the joy of bounty was upon them all. Their music echoed through the trees, and filled the places beneath the leaves with a magic all its own, redoubling the delight of any who heard it. The heavy moon hung fat and low, a glistening half-circle thrusting into the dark gaps between the boughs and spilling rays of silver to pool over the forest floor.

It was to Thranduil’s pride to see them all so vibrant and exuberant; no orcs had dared to test their borders in months, and the spiders were kept well at bay—though they were as well the one dark spot upon the evening, for those guards he had set to minding the paths to Dol Guldur were absent from the feasting. Still, it was the greatest time of plenty they had known in many years, and the people cheered at the sight of their king, come out among them from the deep halls of his dwelling.

He deferred their toasts and hails with a gentle sort of austerity as he passed from fire to fire, lingering nowhere overlong, for while he knew that it was by his will that the forest had begun to thrive, he did not yet feel content in accepting their praise—there was still much to be done to restore the realm to the state his people deserved to find it in. Thankfully few attempted to hold his attention for more than a moment; it was common knowledge that this celebration was the first he had deigned to actively join since the passing of… He pressed the thought away, the flickering of melancholy drowned by a mouthful of fine Dorwinion red. He had no desire to let his guard slip, nor his frown cast a pall over his people’s merrymaking, and though he had long perfected the mask he wore to hide his thoughts, of late he had found himself more stirred to emotion than he’d dreamed he could be again. From time to time in recent moons he had found himself the fixture of some supplicant’s awe, and wondered if he had chanced to let something of himself and his thoughts shine through the stoic face he wore as king.

Oh yes, his greedy heart had been well-tested in the month since he had sat alone, considering his fate outside his kingdom’s halls; that gentle constant hum of his soul had grown stronger, louder, pressing at his resolve to—not _deny_ it, for he could never take that drastic measure, but—to fix his focus elsewhere. It was like trying to hold back the tide and waylay the moon all at once, and he found his wonderings about who and how and _when_ had come creeping into his dreams, demanding the attention he refused to give them in his waking hours. Still, he held himself to his silent and selfish vow, suffering the waves of emotion with a patience born of nearly seven thousand years of life. He could not afford to veer from his course, and though his people might have rejoiced to know of his gift, he remained wary of the chance that they might similarly despise him for it. More than a new love, he told himself, he was most desirous of their regard and safety—to wish that it could be otherwise was to turn the sacrifices he and those nearest to him had already made, and were making still, to ash.

And so he strove to keep his heart divided, and channeled what keen desire he felt into the aiding of his people. Though just begun, the clearing and restoration of the elven path that cut between the east and western sides of the forest had gone apace. It had been a… tender choice to make, and he had felt a keen guilt to have let the road become so harrowing. In many places the stones that paved it had been all but reabsorbed into the soil, and though he knew his people did not need them to find their way, for they were not so affected by the heady magics of the forest around it as were those of other races, he knew that they deserved a beautiful home, as well as a safe and protected one. He had given himself no time to ponder plans for what he knew lay at the western end of that road (for he was shamed by the neglect he had exhibited for Mindonel’s statue, which had all but passed from the memory of most of his people); its oversight was a blow against his pride, as well as his heart, and he selfishly skirted away from thoughts of it—a worry for another, later day.

He had remained reluctant to allow his people to spread further from his halls than a day’s travel, though a far greater range than that of the northern forest had been restored to green glory. The threat of danger from the mountains or from the south ever weighed upon his mind, and he had seen himself what could happen to those who strayed too far from a defense of walls of stone. He had dug his halls deep enough to house the whole of his people should the need arise, but he knew how they craved the open air, the sound of trees, and the light of the stars; to bind them to a life underground, like they were _dwarves_ , that would be the death of them as surely as any other. A death of culture and desire and of the heart and mind, as well as of the body. The elves of the forest loved no sight on Arda more than that of the stars, and he would not deny them that.

And so they had thronged to celebrate the life around them, rejoicing in the splendor that surrounded them, there beneath the slowly darkening sky. They had begun at noon, dancing as the sky bled red and purple, and until the darkness came to cloak the world in soft midnight velvet. A cry rang out at the sight of the first star of the evening, and a hush and stillness rushed to hold each elf in silent savoring of the light of it, until at last a second star flared to brilliant sight. That was the cue the elves had waited for: their music burst forth all the louder, with tumbling notes and soaring strings, their song given wings as if it alone could bear them up to reach those distant twinkling lights. Their ecstasy was a palpable, near-physical thing, rippling from soul to soul, kindling the light within each of them to greater brightness—and Thranduil drank it in, for the joy of his kin was his own as well. They were happy. They thrived. And the Elvenking could be content.

The fires blazed as the revels of the woodland realm reached their zenith, and at last the great feast itself was brought forth. Wine flowed rich and heady, and in gouts of fragrant steam and smoke sent billowing to catch in clouds beneath the canopy, great sides of venison and leaf-wrapped trout were sprung from where they had cooked since daybreak in ovens dug into the ground itself; with them came fowl stuffed near to bursting with chunks of savory roots and vegetables, and some with their own eggs tucked inside, swaddled in sheafs of aromatic grasses that lent their wild flavor to flesh that fell like melting from the bones. Horns spilling with berries and plump fruits, spiced nuts and creamy aged cheeses drizzled with honey were heaped upon the long tables for all to partake. No desire went unmet, not now that the bounty of their land had been restored—Thranduil himself had seen to it.

A great seat had been erected for him at the head of the feasting tables, and he found his way to it after a time. Upon his throne flanked by broad antlers and curved, living saplings he could be at ease, for few would dare to approach him there, and the power of dominion over all he saw filled him with reassuring strength. His place was not among the dancers nor the singers, the jolly feasting folk, but above them—and perhaps apart. Or so he had decided long ago. _Let them enjoy the evening, their sport and follies,_ he mused, one hand slowly swirling the wine within his glass. No, his place was to preserve and protect, to provide, not to have for himself such open, expressive freedoms…

Though he lately found that he minded being set apart very little—for in the quiet moments such as these, where all he saw were at peace, and full and safe from harm, turned away from him to rejoice among themselves, _then_ he felt he could, guiltless, trace that place inside his chest where he was joined to that mysterious _other_ , could turn it over and over with his mind’s touch like a treasured stone, with edges and divots he had begun to know with ever-increasing intimacy. So indulged Thranduil now, his face schooled to a look of faint and unearthly pleasure at the sight his exultant nation presented to him. His people, should they draw near enough to look his way, would no doubt think him caught up in a waking-dream, for so he had spent many festivals in centuries past—when the pain or distant numbness in his heart had otherwise forbidden him to partake in any revelry. Tonight however, he was _awake_. Rather than dream, Thranduil sat upon his throne, one hand folded across his breast, and _wondered_.

To find the place inside where two souls met was an easy enough thing for those who had experienced it before, those who knew how to look for it. Like an anchor cast upon the sandy bottom of a lake, it left a mark, and he traced the rippling face of his heart to where the tether sprang, and let his senses sink into the winding thread that bound him at the point. From a faint, easily ignorable tugging into to a constant pull it had grown, and with that constancy came familiarity, and to his conflict, a sensitivity to the moods that sang along its strings to vex him so thoroughly. He knew of course the cause—whomever lay at the other end of that thread of fate had drawn nearer, though they were not yet at hand, and his heart yearned to know them more for that proximity, beat faster, harder at the mere thought of it.

He had felt the same thing once before, in an Age past, after first love had stirred his heart to waking, but before he’d chanced to meet _her_. He had not at that time the skill to read and trace the bond as he did now—no elf unwed could understand their own soul half as well as was needed to see where it bled into that of another—and it was a strange thing to realize the level of intimacy he could claim over the spirit of one he had _not_ yet met. It was as if all the strength of his bond with… Mindonel… had been diverted, unpotted like a flower grown too large for where it was kept, and replanted in a new garden. It had been weak at first, and taken time to recover, but now it _flourished,_ and he was in awe to know it.

 _Are they as aware of I as I am of them?_ He had asked such of himself before, but for all his ponderings he had no way of knowing. Most likely, he guessed, they did not, though it surprised him to realize he felt thus certain. For that _other_ this must all be new, and unfamiliar. For _himself_ the bond was _so_ similar to that which had held his heart before that it was far easier to grasp. Not identical, no, but there were times when he felt this new heart’s joy sing forth in a chord so similar to _hers_ that he thought he could almost hear the echo of… of her laughter, with it—and in those moments he forgot that this was a _new_ desire, a second fate, and not merely an extension of the first.

And yet other times it was so starkly different to the first that he was in awe to realize how his heart could fit so perfectly beside it, just as well as it had done before. This new heart lashed to his own pulsed with a strength and fire he had not known in his first love, and an unrestrained joy that had shocked him into laughing aloud the first time he had felt their humor come upon him—and thank the stars that he had been alone in his chambers at the time. As he had lingered in the slowly-fading glow of that distant _other’s_ delight, it occurred to him that he could not then remember the last time he had felt such contentment as to laugh… Too long ago, perhaps, for the sound had been strange and foreign to his ears. Even now the memory of that that moment brought a smile to Thranduil’s face—and regret swiftly upon its heels, for there beside his throne now stood his son, come close just in time to see the truly happy expression so long missing from his father’s face go flitting by, warm and tender.

“The wine must be of _fine_ vintage indeed to please you so,” Legolas stared up at him from the foot of his seat, his expression one of mixed amusement and almost pained bewilderment. “I would dare to request to drink from your table, father, but I fear a wine so strong would steal away the rest of the evening’s revels from me.” And that barb did snatch the quiet joy from Thranduil’s face, his pale blue eyes gone wide and cold at the audacity of his child. He could find no reprimand within him to give, however—for such indulgences had indeed been his fashion for months and years and _centuries_ past—but to the younger elf’s surprise, instead of drinking, his father calmly lifted his goblet, and poured out upon the ground the nearly full remainder.

“Legolas, _ion nín_.” The hand that had lain across his heart rose in welcome, his palm kept towards his chest. “It is well to see you here.” For all that they were father and son, their paths had crossed less than would be expected in the last centuries. Thranduil knew it was his own fault—when fresh, his grief had numbed him to the needs of his child, and by the time he had come to his senses the rift between them was carved deep indeed, and each of them stood on one side of it, with truly little by way of a bridge to cross it. It had not helped that both of them blamed Thranduil himself for Mindonel’s death, and the long night of his father’s heart had turned Legolas’ cold to him in turn.

Still, Thranduil could not help but offer, “Come, join me, if you wish.” Perhaps it was too little and too late to think, to hope that in the last fifty years he had done better by him, his heart reawakened to the depth of his love for his son—one more blessing he had been unworthy of but had seized upon with greedy desire. Even a king would rather his son be merely cool with him, and not so frigidly cold as they both had been in days long past.

Legolas had been slow indeed (and was yet, for fifty years was little enough time to an elf) to shed the bitter winter of his feelings for his father, but it was only after a brief moment’s hesitation that he ascended the stairs of the throne to stand atop it and at his father’s side, his arms crossed and his slender brows firming to a stoic line as he avoided meeting Thranduil’s eyes, instead gazing out across the crowd below. Long stretched the silence between them, but it _was_ warmer than it had been before, if not quite comfortable. The Elvenking let his sight rove over his son as he stood at his side, drinking in the sight of him—he had much of his mother in him, and his grandfather as well, and for a time it had pained Thranduil to even look upon him. Now he realized, in his folly, he had missed a great deal of his son’s growth into maturity. Here now he stood, an elf long grown, as strong as a mighty tree and full of the vigor of his kind. It was something to be proud of, his son’s triumphs in spite of the obstacles that had been placed before him by Thranduil’s own hand, though he could not help but feel a great sense of sorrow for the time he had lost as well.

Again Legolas turned to regard Thranduil quick enough to catch the king in his thoughts, and it seemed to unsettle the younger elf somewhat, his arms uncrossing and a flicker of concerned interest shadowing his face. “Father, what has changed of late?” It was a question Thranduil had been expecting, though not one he had delighted to anticipate. “For you _are_ changed; even if I did not see _you_ I would know, for I can see it in the land around us, and hear it in the words of our people.” Down to one knee the son dropped beside his father’s seat, his hand grasping the edge of the twisting throne’s armrest. “Can you not confide in _me_? Among all others?”

But Thranduil was slow to share the truth of the fate of his heart, more with his son than any other. His worry was too great, and he knew well the young elf’s temper. To any man or dwarf Legolas could seem as remote and unknowable as the stars, but among their people he was well known for his expressive ways—just as much as he was for his hunter’s spirit and boundless energy. It was Thranduil’s fear that once he revealed that truth, that no more was his heart lashed _solely_ to the memory of Legolas’ mother, he would lose what little love remained between them. The thought of it had plagued him well after he had come to understand and accept the strange unworthy gift he had been given, and it plagued him still—he did not speak, for the terror of possibly losing his only son, whom his heart still held dear.

He watched in agony as the light of hope faded in Legolas’ eyes; how they shuttered, going cold and aloof once more in the face of his father’s remoteness. He saw it, and the mask he wore cracked. In one moment, a twin blow to his heart was dealt: to think he might lose his son no matter the choice he made was unacceptably painful, and then upon the heels of his own agony, a rending bolt of unearthly _fear,_ come from _elsewhere,_ that choked his heart within his ribs. In a flash of movement his hand shot up to catch the turning, leaving prince’s wrist, and sent his goblet crashing to the forest floor, its fall blessedly silenced by the thick leaf litter there.

“Father? Father!” As if from a great distance he saw Legolas turn, his face furious as he meant to pull from Thranduil’s grip, but all that rage bled away to a stark look of confused fear at the open terror writ across his father’s face. The young elf’s cry was swallowed by the noise of the crowd and the instruments as he seized Thranduil by the shoulders, clutching at him, his blazing eyes searching for any wound, any sign of what had come upon his king.

All sound fled from Thranduil’s hearing then, until in that stark silence, distant and faint, he heard it. A whisper, a _crack_ , like lightning far over the hills—his mere notice seemed to draw it, and it rushed towards him before he knew it was upon him: an onslaught of light and heat and deafening thunder that echoed in his skull, one burning flash of a great, blazing _eye_ … and then vanished, as if it had never been.

“Father… father… _father_ , tell me. Tell me, please, _what did you see_?” He felt himself being shaken, and his pale eyes blinked, the world swimming into focus as if he had been trapped beneath a wave. The muted sounds of harps and flutes and drums, song and cheerful laughter rose like the dawn to chase the vision (had it been merely that?) back into the dark depths of his mind. Legolas hovered before him, an open, vulnerable worry twisting his bright face even as he slowly loosed his grip upon his father’s shoulders when he saw the light of sense return to his eyes. Before he could retreat, before anything else could happen, Thranduil snapped a hand up to cover his son’s where it sat, the heat of Legolas’ skin against his own proof of the frightful chill of horror that still lingered in his bones—for he had a terrible fear that he had recognized the darkness at the heart of that great, molten eye.

“Something has happened. Some change has come upon the world, the likes of which I have not felt in many years.” His own voice shocked him in its calm, for in the wake of his flash of foresight—Legolas must be right, to mark it as a vision, a rare moment of prescience—he felt unseated, unsettled and on high alert. It had left the thread of his half-bound soul crackling like a live-wire, a smoldering, lucent thing that clawed at his attention, and resisted his every attempt to push it down, to ignore it any longer. The electricity of it rent him, and he felt his grip flex and tighten about his son’s hand—saw him grimace before he could force his fingers to release their hold.

“Summon my guard and the scouts, the captains, Tauriel—I want the watch doubled at all our borders. All roads, all rivers. Nothing moves but I hear of it. No one enters this kingdom, and no one leaves it—!” He gasped and shut his eyes against a final scorching pulse that rippled outwards from the center of his chest, cutting like shards of volcanic glass down the nerves of his arm, before it faded to nothingness at the base of his index finger. In a flash he pulled his hand from Legolas’, some wild thought that the pain could leap to his son through him spurring the action. It was just as well: already the young elf was turning to stand, to do his king’s will, his face fixed in grim determination. One last look he cast back, of concern so clear that it touched Thranduil to see, and then he was gone. A darting bolt between the swirling, dancing, untroubled forms of their kin.

Alone once more, Thranduil sat back upon his throne, pulling long breaths to slow the frantic fear-spurred pace of his heart. _It cannot be_ , he insisted to himself, though at the depths of his soul he knew the terrible truth. In his dread for what the future held, he paid no mind to the slowly receding notes that still played upon the strings of his soul, until they faded, so quiet as to be nearly silent, and hidden beyond his own rushing thoughts. For if it _had_ been a vision, though rare indeed had they come to him before… then he must harden his heart from even that secret, treasured touch, and hide all soft tenderness within him. As he gazed once more upon his bright, happy, _unknowing_  people, no spark of joy lit the king’s eyes—they held only cold despair, and colder resolve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes on Thranduil’s history in Beleriand: There’s nothing canon that talks about exactly where or when Thranduil was born, but I think him having been from Menegroth makes sense. He’s a Sindar elf, and Doriath was the Sindar realm in the latter-half of the Years of the Trees and most of the First Age of the Sun. The capital of Doriath, Menegroth (The Thousand Caves) was built underground at King Thingol’s request, by the dwarves of Belegost, was “beautifully decorated with carvings of beech trees and birds”—as was definitely Thranduil’s inspiration for his own halls in northern Mirkwood, so I feel like he would have had to have grown up knowing and loving that place to want to hearken back to it.
> 
> The story of what drove the Sindar from Beleriand is long and tragic, and I would highly suggest reading the tale of Beren and Lúthien, because that’s a part of it. I literally do not have the space in the notes to go over it all, but in VERY SHORT: The King of the Sindar, Thingol, came into possession of a silmaril following the death of his daughter, who had held it before. He asked some dwarves from Nogrod to attach it to the Nauglamír, which was the greatest dwarf-made necklace in his realm. They did it, but the beauty of their work enthralled them, and they demanded it in payment for their efforts. Thingol of course said no, and the dwarves attacked him, and were all, save two, killed by the elves of the city. The two that escaped returned to their own king and told him that Thingol had refused to pay them and then attacked them. The dwarves marched on Doriath and lured Thingol into the woods for a hunt, where they ambushed and killed him, before going on to sack Menegroth and Doriath in general. Rule passed to Thingol's grandson, Dior, along with the silmaril and Nauglamír. The sons of Fëanor (Fëanor had created the silmarils, and swore an oath with his sons to retrieve them, and make war upon any who kept them from them) heard Dior had the silmaril, and sacked Menegroth again to try to take it, slaying Dior, his wife, and many of their people in what was known as the Second Kinslaying. Those that were left fled to the Havens of Sirion, including Elwing, who was Dior's daughter and Elrond's mother, who had secreted the silmaril away. In time the sons of Fëanor learned of where they had gone, and hunted the refugee Sindar people there down, to commit the final and most cruel Third Kinslaying. Practically all of the survivors of Doriath were slain, and Elwing threw herself into the sea with the silmaril rather than give it over. Her children Elrond and Elros were taken as wards by the very elves that had slain their grandfather and most of the Sindar people. Given that Oropher and Thranduil survived, I have to guess that they had the luck to leave the Havens just before that last Kinslaying, or perhaps as it was happening, or shortly after. The conflict in the movies between Thranduil and Erebor over his wife's necklace is based on the story of Thingol, according to Peter Jackson, and not in the books.
> 
> Cuiviénen was the place where the elves first awoke in the Years of the Trees, on the shore of a large gulf in the inland Sea of Helcar in the far east of Middle Earth. The region was altered by the War of Wrath, and the Sea of Helcar (and Cuiviénen with it) drained into the Sea of Núrnen and the Sea of Rhûn, and was lost forever.
> 
> Eryn Galen, or "Greenwood the Great", was the original name of what became Mirkwood.  
> Emyn Duir or "The Dark Mountains", later Emyn-nu-Fuin, "The Mountains of Mirkwood", were the home of the elves of Eryn Galen for some time. Once abandoned by the elves, they became the home of goblins, as well as the giant spiders.
> 
> Sauron in the Second Age could assume beautiful forms, and thus tricked the Ñoldor of Eregion into making the rings of power. He intended ALL rings of power to be for the elves, and once he donned his One Ring, to thus be able to control them. The secret creation of the Three Rings thwarted that, however, and he was forced to reclaim and redistribute the Seven and the Nine as part of what was known as The War of the Elves and Sauron.
> 
> Muin nín - “my dear”  
> Meleth nín - “my love”  
> Ion nín - “my son”
> 
> A note on the gesture Thranduil makes to greet Legolas (which is similar to the one he does at Legolas’ departure at the end of BofA): “In such a case [greeting or welcome] the hand would be raised with palm backwards [facing towards the greeter], and for emphasis with waving of the fingers towards the signaller. In casual greeting in passing, when no further speech was desired, the hand was held edge forward, with or without movement of the fingers.” Waving in greeting palm-outward "would have been ill received by the Eldar” - Vinyar Tengwar 47, p.9 – 13


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely Lumenne, who is a gift and a wonder! Shout out to our darling anxiouscrab, who is currently travelling overseas on an adventure of their own!!

**_TA2799_ **

_The eastern gate of Khazad-dûm, that black pit called Moria, lay open wide. From that deep and once most-hallowed hall spilled forth a tide of hateful darkness—orcs without numbering, beyond measure, beyond the counting of them—a screaming mass come clawing from the very home the dwarves had dug to drive back the hosts that rallied before them. The hordes the dwarves had faced therein before were nothing to the numbers that now stood between the line of Durin and the reclamation of that kingdom of old, for the ranks of Gundabad had joined the throng at their master’s bidding, keen to taste the flesh and blood of their foes._

_For the dwarven soldiers that charged into the fray at their king’s behest, there was no recourse. No option, no better plan than this—to fight or die to rescue the ancient halls for their people, and even these foul and twisted denizens they now faced in such grim odds seemed the kinder option than to return to Erebor, to battle the dragon once more. Their king’s will was as their own, and their rage was great indeed at the occupation of their once-hallowed halls by such filth. It was a fire that had carried the dwarves through many battles over the years, for it burned with vengeance and with hope._

_After the fall of Erebor, those under Thrór had been divided. A great many of their number had taken flight to the Iron Hills, to dwell under the rule of Grór, his younger brother. Those that had remained with their king had wandered, homeless and destitute in search of a new land to call their own. At last for them all hope but one had been banished: that which they now fought and strove for, the reclamation of the once-prosperous mines of Moria._

_And so the work of war had begun, for Thrór had seen the hordes of hell within the Misty Mountains as he’d sought for that lost kingdom: a long and arduous struggle, six years of battle beneath the stone in tunnels lost to light and from the knowledge of the world, fighting ever on to clear a path to the heart of their ancient dwelling. Dwarves of every clan rallied to the call of the heir to that elder line of Durin, and against the taint of evil within those halls. Great and many were the wounds both sides dealt to one another in those days, and many never spoke of the atrocities committed beneath the mountain thereafter._

_Then at last it came to that final battle upon the Dimrill Dale—when the combined clans of the dwarves met with all the foulness left within the Misty Mountains. In fevered pitch they clashed, both sides furious and desperate, and for a time it seemed the white hot rage of the dwarves would be their triumph... until a single foe, filled with a reckless hate and the command of his dark master, charged the field to claim the head of Thrór._

_Azog the Defiler carved his name in runes upon the brow of the fallen king, and in his mouth a pouch of coins of little value placed, before with a vicious grin and mighty heave, he threw the head of Thrór to rest at his grandson’s feet. The horror of such cruelty drove Thrór’s son, Thráin, mad with grief, and he passed from sight and from knowledge within the swarming hordes—defeated or slain, his people knew not. Having lost both king and heir, the tide began to turn in the face of the dwarves’ crumbling morale. Now leaderless, defeat and death were upon them all, the lords and commanders of their many houses falling one by one by one, a gruesome end to their long campaign._

_But all hope was not lost—there upon a rise of stone, his own blade lost and armor rent, Thrór’s grandson hewed the branch of a mighty oak, and wielding it as shield and cudgel, with the aid of his cousin Dáin, who had lost his own father, Náin, as well to the blade of the Pale Orc, did drive Azog back, and together cut the left hand from the beast atop the stairs of Moria. The howling screams of the orc commander as he fell sowed chaos in the enemy ranks, and their lines began to break and shatter against the rallying, avenged dwarves. “Du bekâr!” they cried, “To arms!” and at last the wicked hordes were driven back, defeated by the might of Durin’s folk._

_Moria was won… but at a heavy cost. The dead numbered uncountable, too many to even bury, and great pyres were built, the bodies consigned to flame. The price for victory over the orc hordes was greater than any had dared to imagine, and now so few remained from every clan that, even united as they had not been in many an Age, the dwarves dared not to claim the very home they had so long fought for—for Durin’s Bane, that enigmatic terror in the deeps beneath the halls, remained to be conquered. Had Thrór survived, perhaps he would have dared onwards, to wreckage and to ruin in his desperate, maddened quest for those deep mines of rich mithril. Now in his stead, with Thráin still lost, rule fell to that same young prince that had defeated the Pale Orc—ever after called Oakenshield, for the sturdy branch he carried, and the stoutness of his heart in love for those of his people._

* * *

**_TA2941, May 24th_ **

_“... And I thought to myself then,_ **_there_ ** _is one whom I could follow. There is one I could call_ **_King_** _.” Balin’s eyes were alight with the glow of pride as he finished his tale, all the pain of loss he had recalled fading to a sort of wonder as he looked upon the regal figure of their Company’s leader. To a one the dwarves were snared by his tale, their faith in the quest restored, increased by their pride to be in the presence of Thorin Oakenshield himself._

_Even Bilba had to admit that in the moment, there upon the edge of the cliff, bathed in the pale light of the waxing crescent moon, he looked every inch a king—a figure cut from the cloth of legend, noble and unknowable in his mien, an inspiration to behold. And yet, she could not help but ask, as he crossed from where he’d stood to join them all nearer to the fire, “What of the pale orc? What became of Azog?” For such foul things as orcs were equally resilient, terrible in their disregard for mere wounds of the flesh._

_With a look half of reassurance, and half of pity (or something like it), the dark-haired dwarf regarded her, wondering perhaps that she would dare to even ask. “That filth died of his wounds long ago—a nightmare long defeated. No, you need not worry that he will come upon us in the night, Mistress Baggins; his defiling days are long over.”_

* * *

**_TA2941, July 16th_ **

Bilba had never felt as alive as she did when she came bursting from the mouth of the cave and into the light of the setting sun. There was a vibrant fire singing in her veins, and despite the relative gloom of the shadowy world that seemed to come with wearing the ring, she could not find it in herself to stop from smiling—for she was _free_. Free of that dark cavern! Free from the sickly, twisted thing that had stalked her in the gloom! She felt in that moment as light as a feather, and far more alert than anyone who’d missed a night’s sleep, on top of being tumbled down a mountain, ever ought to. The air was thick with the scent of pines around her, no more musk and mildew, and _oh_! In that moment the hillside she’d stepped out onto, all dry grass and conifers, was simply the loveliest place in Middle Earth to her.

...Though as much as she would have loved to stand still in that ray of sunlight and bask, she supposed that she really ought to be off and after the Company. The sounds of goblins within the mountain had faded behind her—for they could not and would not tolerate daylight while it lasted—but the dwarves probably had the right of it, to keep right on running until well away from such a wretched place. With a hike of her pack she was off, darting from tree to tree and through the brush, along little ridges where bare stone poked through the skin of moss and scrubby grass, hopping down short drops before charging back up the rolling rises that made up the foothills of the mountain she was zipping down.

The Company was easy enough to track, as loud as a herd of cattle crashing along and leaving broken stems and snapped branches in their wake. Nothing at all like her own passage, unseen and unheard along behind them, and she made quick enough work of running them down. As she caught herself on the trunk of a tree to keep from careening directly into poor Balin, she decided that she must still be rather shook up from the encounter with the Gollum thing, because even after the sprint she found that her breath was coming as easy as anything, and her heart was pounding more from the thrill of their escape than from fear or strain. No doubt she’d collapse in a heap after a moment or two of calm—hopefully the dwarves would not begrudge her the need to sit down for a spell, once her legs went all to jelly.

Though speaking of the dwarves, they seemed in a right fit upon her arrival. Gandalf as well (and she still rather wondered where he’d turned up from, and when) looked nearly beside himself as he bellowed after the lot of them. The sound was strangely muffled, but clear enough was the wizard’s ire, and it surprised her only a little to hear her own name on his lips. He turned a tight circle, eyes scanning each of the dwarves as if searching desperately for—“Where is our hobbit?!”—ah. “You’ve lost her somewhere!” The wizard rounded on the dwarves, furious disfavor writ clear upon his face, and really, if they had done as to leave her in such a wretched place, she wouldn’t have blamed Gandalf for his reaction. No happy fate would befall any left behind at the goblins’ mercy, certainly not. _Of course,_ she reasoned to herself a moment later, _from their point of view I suppose that they_ **_did_ ** _leave me behind._ And perhaps it was that sour thought that made her hesitate in stepping out from under the tree’s shadow to free them from the proverbial hook they’d set themselves to wriggle upon.

Back and forth they tossed the blame, at least long enough for Kili to catch his breath and get a word in edgewise. “She was with us when we fell—I saw her reaching out when the floor gave way, but I lost her after the goblins swarmed…” The poor lad seemed rather beside himself about it too, almost ready to go running back up the hill towards the cave entrance if not for Fili holding tightly to him. “She must still be in there! We can’t leave her, can we?” A chorus of replies answered the young dwarf, and for just a moment it looked like the lot of them would end up throwing themselves right back into danger on her behalf. Bilba’d half come ‘round the tree to give herself up as safe and sound, her churlish hesitancy having fallen away at their desire to go back for her, when Thorin’s bark silenced and stilled the lot of them, freezing all but Gandalf on the spot.

“It is too dangerous, and a lost cause besides—I doubt that we could find her now with their legions scrambling and crawling about, and even if we did, it would be too late. I _cannot_ allow this quest to fail for the sake of a single hobbit, though such an end is not the sort I would wish upon one as soft as her. It will be nightfall soon, and then _none_ of us will be safe if even we linger _here_. We must press on, and find a way to _make do_ without our burglar.”

The would-be-king’s words carried the weight of his authority behind them, brooking no recourse from those who followed him, and in truth he was not wrong. The goblins would be upon them ere they lingered past the fading of the waning light, and to return to those caverns which they had only just barely escaped would be folly. Even without their own king to lead them, the goblins would be a chaotic and reckless force to deal with, in numbers unmanageable. To think that Bilba was already beyond the saving was a sensible thing as well, for goblins paid little mind to if their meals were living or dead, and would have found such sweet and tender flesh as appealing as the Gollum-creature had seemed to imagine of her. But none of that changed that Thorin had all but sentenced her to a cruel and undeserved death, nor that his final words on the subject were full of biting disdain—as if, perhaps, he’d never really expected to have need of her in any professional capacity at all, once they reached the journey’s end.

All around him the flame of resolve within the Company guttered slowly out, one by one the dwarves sagging where they stood in grim acceptance of both her supposed fate and their leader’s decision. She could hear Glóin grumbling under his breath as he began to coax Óin onwards. There were Fili and Kili, trudging away and holding to each other so tight that they almost had to be sharing boots. Around the edge of the tree trunk she could see Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur all looking back the way they’d come more than once, as if hoping to see her appear. Balin seemed to have aged a century in the last moments, and though Dwalin was ever the one to resolutely follow his king’s orders, even he was slower in his step as he turned to match Thorin’s retreat. Gandalf of course had stammered and huffed and all but demanded they turn back right then and there, for all the good his words did, but it was seeing poor Ori, trying to muffle his sobs in a tangle of limbs between Dori and Nori that was the worst of all for her to bear—his genuine grief quite touched her, and reminded her that Thorin’s feelings for her were not as universal as might be thought.

Still, in a moment they all of them were moving on—without her, and a bit if her previous sourness returned with the sight of the backs of them. Well! Well then! They thought she was so unimportant, did they? Thought they could get along without her? She would certainly show them, she would, and when all was said and done, and they had their mountain back, well! They’d just see who’d managed to _make do_ without whom! She felt the spark of her dislike for the dwarven leader, fueled by his repeated scorn, catch like tinder in her chest when it came in contact with the thrumming energy she still felt pooling inside her. Catch and flare, like a cooking fire that’d caught the grease, and for just a moment it burned, dark and hot and furious: an ugly smoking contempt she’d never felt before. _She could so very easily leave him to his fate, go home to her soft armchair and let his pride and dragonfire burn him in the end, while she was safe and sound and…!_

She shuddered at the foreign thought, flinching from it and the ideas it had conjured. She would not wish that blazing, burning fate upon anyone, not even this king of rudeness himself, and that for just a moment she had felt inclined to do so, and return to that cold and empty life in the Shire knowing their doom—it shook her, as well as pushed her to action. “Wait!” She cried as she stepped out from behind the tree, reaching down to tug the ring free (she’d nearly forgotten she was wearing it in all the excitement) with a firm yank or two. “Wait, I’m here!” The ring almost seemed to have shrunk with how slowly it slipped free of her, and she fumbled as it popped loose, hurrying to quickly pocket it. “Hold on now, just a moment!” Perhaps it wasn’t the ring that had somehow shrunk, she found herself reasoning, but was that her hands were still rather a mess from all the scrapes and near misses and had swollen—… The thought was there and gone, and with it her concern over the odd tightness of the ring, as a sudden lack of energy nearly made her knees buckle at the precise moment the dwarves spun about to stare at her as if she were some specter come to haunt them, take revenge for their own supposedly-forsaken fourteenth member.

* * *

With a shuddering gust of release, whatever had taken hold of Mindonel’s essence at last relented, the blazing light of it’s desperate, sucking, drawing need cutting off short with a distant, terrible scream. The band of that connection between the souls of elf and hobbit snapped back like a bowstring, to flutter loose for just a moment on an unseen, unfelt wind, before returning to the gentle and subtle thing it had been before the One Ring had slid onto Bilba Baggins’ finger. It would be some long moments before the elf’s fëa found the strength to rise from where she had been flung, the light that burned at the heart of her formless self flickering, low and sallow, before it slowly reclaimed its previous radiant starlight-shine.

* * *

It was at most ten seconds before Bilba realized that she ought to be worried about breathing, not standing, for she’d become sandwiched at the center of a pack of dwarves, all talking over each other in their excitement and relief to see her hale and hearty. All, of course, save Dwalin, who had never been one for such affections (though she could make out past the mass of Bifur’s hair how his shoulders dropped their sharp line of tension at the sight of her), and of course, Thorin himself. It was rather hard to guess what he was thinking in the moment, if it was very much at all, and so Bilba let herself focus instead on those nearer to her—nearer to her heart, as well as to crushing her from relief and worry.

“I _am_ fine, thank you, though I’ll admit I’m rather shaken by all this,” she deflected their worries as best she could, when at last she had again the breath to speak. In truth she’d begun to feel rather weary, but that only made sense after all that had gone on. Her dwarves looked equally exhausted at a closer look, so she did not bother to admit her yearning for a soft featherbed, guessing rightly that they already knew and felt the same.

“We thought you were gone for good! Better bein’ smashed t’bits by the stone giants than left with that lot—I _am_ glad you weren’t left, Bilba!” Bofur gave her curls a tousle and threw a wink her way—leave it to him to make light of her repeated near-death experiences.

“Aye, it’s good to have you back among us.” That was Balin, his eyes shining so brightly she could almost imagine he’d be shedding tears shortly. Almost, but not quite; for all his apparent age, Balin was a tough old dwarf, after all.

“I can’t even imagine how you escaped!” Kili crowed, his eyes wide with doubtlessly over-imagined feats of her derring do. And then, so low she was sure none of the other dwarves could have heard it, “Or why you’d _want_ to come back, with Uncle being—“

“Kili! Fili! The rest of you! We’re losing the light—we will not want to be in the open when the sun is set!” Thorin’s voice cracked like a whip amidst them, spurring to motion the whole pack of dwarves at once. With grins fit to split their faces, the two younger dwarves shot to join their uncle, tailed by the rest of the Company who fell into place with less haste and more long-honed efficiency. To a one they filed past their king, who now seemed content to bring up the rear if that meant seeing his people along with no more delay. Only when Bilba stepped up to pass him did he turn, fixing her with a sharp, intense stare.

“Ere we sleep this night, I _will_ know how you escaped the goblin tunnels, burglar,” he rumbled, and somehow made what he could have put as a simple request sound perfectly like a threat. “As well as why you returned to us. Why, when you had your moment to slip away, you came back.” There was a subtle sort of desperation in his tone as he demanded thus of her, coaxing the water of truth from the stone of her antagonized heart.

With little enough time to order her thoughts, and half the company still at hand (and listening close, she was sure) she simply nodded to herself and said, “To be honest, the Shire never felt quite like home to me after Ma and Da passed, for all that it _does_ have my books and my _soft_ armchair.” That barb was smartly slung, and she saw the flicker of understanding behind the dwarf’s stoic expression—she had heard quite clearly his harsh dismissal of her life, her skill, and her worth. “ _That’s_ why I came back, rather than slink off to go and live untroubled by your fate. I have known that sense of wrongness in a poor fit, and the drive to find where you ought to be.” It had taken her until Rivendell to realize how unsuited for the Shire—as lovely as it was—she had been. “And, it seems to me, that for you and yours, that place you fit would be in Erebor. So… even if I don’t know where that place is for _me_ , even if you doubt me, and have made it very clear that where my place is is _not_ among you, I _will_ help you get _yours_ back, if I can, before you see the back of me for good, Thorin Oakenshield.”

She felt rather proud of all that, really—to say it and know she meant each word, to him but more that, to _herself_. But unfortunately whatever the stunned dwarf had had to say in the face of such a declaration was lost, never to be revealed to her. For as his brows pinched and furrowed, his great grimacing maw dropping open wide, to praise or chastise was anyone’s guess, a howl rent the air, sending icy fingers up the spines of all who heard, and putting them to flight as the pounding pace of wargs grew closer behind them.

Their sprint was sudden and desperate, and Bilba felt her energy flagging before much time at all had passed. Whatever strength or adrenaline had filled her before, sustained her in her fright and peril, it seemed spent now, and it was all she could do to reach the trees the dwarves were scrambling up in time to get scooped up and slung—slung like a sack of Master Worrywort’s tubers at the market!—up into the branches. The rough bark scratched at her already-raw palms, but the alternative to hauling herself up, limb by limb, was to become intimately familiar with the flashing teeth and carving claws of the beasts that’d come rushing up to pace and circle below. Wargs—at least ten, now fifteen, twenty even, it was hard to tell as they whirled and leapt and tore at the lower branches—and on their heels through the deep blue gloaming followed not goblins, but _orcs_.

Upon their foul and fanged mounts, thrusting spears and fists into the air like revelers at some sickly feast, they came, and they cackled and laughed at the sight of their quarry amid the branches. The horrible, wretched things joined the wargs in their circling, staring up with luminous eyes to leer at dwarf and hobbit and wizard, licking their pointed teeth and jabbing with their pikes at any foot or hand that hung too low, forcing the Company to higher and higher perches. Still, they made no attempt to climb the trees themselves, and to Bilba it almost seemed that they were waiting for something, though what that was she had no desire to know. Whatever it was, she hoped it took some time, though for what good and to what end she was not sure—they were squarely treed, and aside from leaping to their deaths over the edge of the cliff face beyond, there was little enough that the Company could do.

Then at great speed went something soaring just past Bilba’s head, a burst of red light near her left eye: a pinecone, blazing bright with fire, sent whirling down to bounce and catch against one of the tattered wargs’ thick fur. Her squeal of fright was lost amid the beast’s pained howls, the poor thing twisting and writhing in an attempt to smother itself against the dirt. Those others of its pack seemed fearful of the blaze as well, and danced away from their smoldering companion, ceasing in their snapping and snarling for a moment. A warning cry from above was all the warning she got before another cone was loosed—directly into her hands, still crackling and lit from within by a barely-wakened flame. “G-gandalf?!” She juggled the smoking cone from hand to hand, flinching from the sting of it.

“Light more near you, then toss them, my girl!” The wizard called down to her, though she was not the only one now clutching the flaming projectiles. In ones and twos, then faster did they fly, the dwarves scrambling to pluck more from the old fir-tree and then send them whizzing, to pop like firecrackers at its base and across the backs of the wargs. Those that Bilba threw (once she managed to pull a handful of the hard little seed-pods to her) flew with an unerring accuracy, cracking into the faces of orcs and wargs alike, or into gaps in the ring of fire that was soon built around their trees.

In another life, in another world, she would have smirked at the triumph, having previously noted upon one unexpected evening amid a host of dwarves come tromping into Bag End her not-insignificant skill with conkers, and other thrown projectiles. Here instead her only thoughts were those of grim resolution, and not a little fear—for in the dwarves’ excitement, many of the cones had burst too near to the tree for her to feel fully safe… and indeed a moment later she despaired to see the flames begin to lick at the trunk of the old pine, and several others blazing besides. Those wargs that had been enkindled had run wild in pain and terror, and here at the height of summer, on the east side of the mountains where little rain indeed fell, all was dry and brown, and took to the flame with speed and ferocity. While the stinging, scorching cones had been enough to rout the wargs, who feared the fire quite naturally, it was not enough to put the orcs to flight, and they crowded just outside the reach of the blaze beneath the tree, staring up and jeering, cheering, _singing_ in their wretched voices.

 _Fifteen birds in five fir-trees,_  
_their feathers were fanned in a fiery breeze!_  
_What funny little birds, they had no wings!_  
_Oh what shall we do with the funny little things?_  
_Roast 'em alive, or stew them in a pot;  
fry them, boil them and eat them hot?_

 _Burn, burn tree and fern!_  
_Shrivel and scorch! A fizzling torch_  
_To light the night for our delight,  
Ya hey!_

 _Bake and toast 'em, fry and roast ’em!_  
_till beards blaze, and eyes glaze;_  
_till hair smells and skins crack,_  
_fat melts, and bones black_  
_in cinders lie_  
_beneath the sky!_  
_So dwarves shall die,_  
_and light the night for our delight,_  
_Ya hey!_  
_Ya-harri-hey!  
Ya hoy!_

It was a terrible song, ugly and taunting, and far too vivid for the dwarves and for Bilba, with the fire crackling ever higher and the sweat beading on their brows. It ended in a raucous chorus of laughter from the orcs, though that too died off in a wave. The sudden sharpness of their silence drew the attention of the Company, and their orcish gazes all traced to one fixed point, one figure who had stepped from the darkness and into the dancing orange light of the blaze. The sight of that white and corpse-like mass painted with shades of molten gold and wavering deep shadows from the inferno’s light drew gasps of fear and moans of despair from the throats of the dwarves—for there, atop his white warg, sat Azog, his teeth bared in profane delight.

One long and muscled arm did the Pale Orc extend—one that ended just beyond the elbow, the flesh a knotted bundle of scars where through the lance-like hilt of a vicious claw of black iron had been impaled, terminating in cruel hooked points where before he had had a hand of flesh and bone. Wordless was his command, and wordless the response as the lingering orcs leapt forth to hew the flickering trunk with strokes of axe and sword. The flames shuddered and wavered as the wood was cut to cracking, cinders and flecks of sap, both glittering in the light, sent flying like rain to fall and further scorch the ground.

Above where sat the dwarves, it seemed that all was lost. What rallying had come from putting the wargs to flight was spent, and most among them could do little but cling to the branches and their hope as the tree slowly began to sway and lean. Thorin more than any was struck, frozen by the baleful gleam of the Pale Orc’s gaze, disbelieving and aghast—“It cannot be…!”—as though some most-hated nightmare had come crawling from the deepest pit of his buried fears, and perhaps to him it was. His stare did not falter as the tree buckled, twisted, slid from the carved remnant of the stump to totter briefly and then sag at last towards the hill-cliff’s edge, but instead his eyes stayed locked upon that most hated foe, even as the dwarf leader with the tree did fall, to shuddering crack against the lip of stone. He seemed not to notice the great height they now hung at, nor the flames; there was only this Great Fear among all others, chief and central, and pushing all other thoughts to distant, dusty corners of his mind.

For Bilba, the fall was nearly the end of it. The thunderous crash of the tree upon the ledge left her hanging over open air, hands grasping and clawing at the wood to haul herself upwards onto the slender limb she’d been tossed from. Once there she had the luck to find her balance, though barely could she lift from her belly, having wrapped her arms around the branch in a shivering, clutching grip. Some half-mad voice spoke up then in the back of her mind, shrill with fear and exhaustion, _If I never find myself hanging from anything taller than the Party Tree again, I’ll be quite happy, thank you!_ and from her chest came bubbling a tense burst of laughter on the heels of that thought, for surely she would never see any part of Hobbiton again, anyway, but would fall to her death in a few short moments.

The crunch of a boot mere inches from her face snapped her from her racing, maudlin thoughts, and in a flash of instinct one hand ripped from the branch to snap out, clutching at the trailing end of Thorin’s coat for just a moment before he pulled free. “Thorin?” He stood atop the fallen tree, striding past without hearing her (nor the shouts and cries of his men), without slowing, without even a glance away from that nightmare figure that had ensnared him. “Thorin, what’re you doing?!” It was madness, and she could do little but watch as he drew his sword, stepping down from the hewn end of the tree to drop onto the clifftop, the blade thrust towards Azog in challenge.

After that everything began to move very quickly, and it would only be later, after several nights of rest and as many days of good food, that Bilba would be able to think back on it with any sort of ordered thoughts, or consider just what had happened. Seeing Thorin all but fling himself at the Pale Orc, his desperate and almost disbelieving fervor making him reckless enough to leave himself completely open to a strike from the warg, which drove him down into the dirt—it had nearly broken the Company at last, their wails echoing off the stone, as well as it had sparked a line of something bright and furious inside Bilba’s chest. It was not that same torrential surge that had come over her while wearing the ring, nor the silvered string into the east that had been a constant source of comfort and sustenance all her life. No, this was something else, a flicker of her own bravery, mingled with an almost-foreign determination.

Flashes of the faces of those she’d lost before came rushing to her—her mother, her father, her friends and family and neighbors in the Fell Winter and to accidents and sickness—and then _more_ faces, rushing by in her mind’s eye, all strange and none known to her, though she felt their loss as keenly as if they had been her own. Men and elves, so very many elves, and trees and beasts and kingdoms, all of their losses weighed her down, for none she—nor anyone—had been able to save.

But… Thorin was one she _could_ save. He might not be her friend, might not even think her worth the trouble of bringing her along, but he _was_ important. Important to his people, if not herself, and even she had found sympathy for the dwarven plight he now sought to lift them from. And knowing that she _could_ do something to save someone who needed it, well! It was enough to drive her to her feet and set her sprinting after the fallen dwarf before she could second guess herself, her little sword flashing blue and a wordless cry of righteous fury behind her teeth. She bore the orc about to behead him to the ground, a curving slice of her blade sending the filth’s head rolling instead, and a gout of black blood into her face and hair, where it clung and dripped; stinking, warm, and wet.

She twisted then to plant herself between the fallen would-be king and the remaining orcs, her blue eyes gone as cold as chips of ice, to chill them from behind her orc-blood mask. Her heart was rabbiting behind her ribs, and though she held her sword aloft, it shook with that half-buried fear, or the weakness of her arm, or both. While she was sure she must look a pitiful sight to the pacing orcs, none seemed inclined to strike her down at once. Even Azog, that foul beast himself, seemed more surprised than furious in the moment to find some tiny mouse squeaking defiance at him and his warg. His lip curled in a sneer and she slashed a warning with her sword once more. “You’ll not have him from me, _hû úgaun_!” That turned his sneer into a vicious snarl. “Come and try to take him, then, if you think you can!” She was mad, she must be, to goad him so, but it felt as if someone else had come to speak their fury through her, and hold her firm and brave against the foes before them.

Her eyes flashed to the curl of Azog’s one remaining hand, the flicker of his fingers as he gestured his forces forward a death sentence upon her. She braced herself, firmed her grip upon the blade’s hilt—but before a one of them could move, with a piercing cry that rent the heavens, sailing in upon the light of the silver moon they came: great giant eagles that had lingered behind the clouds as they approached, now stooping low to snatch and toss warg and rider alike, or gather into spear-like talons the dwarves, who had been only steps behind in rushing to the aid of their fallen would-be king and their deadly foolish burglar. Their feathered wings stirred the flames, feeding them and sending them racing up the hillside towards the orcs, and swiftly along the fallen fir-tree, which toppled from its rocky perch only moments later, sending those still clinging to it spinning into space, to plummet, screaming, before finding themselves born aloft aback the giant birds.

For one stark moment through the chaos, Bilba saw Azog turn from the sight of the swooping foes he now faced to stare into her eyes. A consuming hatred glittered there, a blinding fury that shook her deeply, for what but utter evil could create such loathing, such unending need and desire to kill? The Pale Orc, alone unharried by the birds, took one, two, three steps towards her and the fallen Thorin, intent that even should the rest of his prey escape, these two would not—and then could do naught but howl and scream his unspent fury, as from the darkness came yet more eagles, these not to fight, but to pluck them up and from harm’s reach, and into the open sky beyond the mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the books there was a great deal more to Azanulbizar than in the movies. Thrór snuck into Moria alone (leaving a lone sentry, Nár, outside) and was captured by Azog, and tortured for some days before being beheaded. Azog threw the body and rune-carved head (and pouch of coins) out onto the steps as an insult, and the sentry returning with news of that is what kicked off the War of the Dwarves and Orcs. The whole thing lasted about seven years and culminated in the Battle of Azanulbizar. At the battle, it was Dáin’s father, Náin, who was beheaded so dramatically, and it was Dáin alone who took on the Pale Orc, not Thorin—and Dáin actually killed Azog then, not maimed him. The main orc antagonist in the book is Bolg, but eh. I ended up compromising to have Thorin and Dáin both have worked together to cut Azog’s arm, because Thorin’s enmity with him is more to work with, but also Dáin deserved better than the portrayal he got.
> 
> Fifteen Birds in Five Fir Trees is a song taken right from the books; in the books, the goblins actually set the flames on the trees, not the Company, and sing that song as they do it.
> 
> Hû úgaun! - “Cowardly dog!”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely Lumenne, who is a gift and a wonder! Shout out to our darling anxiouscrab, who is currently travelling overseas on an adventure of their own!!

**_TA2932 (1332 Shire Reckoning), April 22nd_ **

_“Thank you so much again for coming, Jago! Do tell Jessamine and Herugar hello from us, and that we’d be delighted to come to tea next week!” Bilba lingered in the doorway of Bag End, one hand upon the knob and her other waving after the retreating figure of Jago Boffin as he slipped through the gate, tipped his hat one final time, and then made his (slightly quicker than usual) way down the lane towards the market. Bilba watched him go until he rounded the bend, and then stepped back inside to shut the door behind her with a soft click, the sounds of birdsong and the distant chatter of hobbits and the wind in the tall grasses muted by the heavy wood to nearly nothing._

_Down the paneled hall she went, on silent feet to where she could hear Belladonna puttering in the kitchen. There would be tea, she knew, though they had only just had luncheon. There was always tea after this sort of thing, to sit and stir and sip at as mother and daughter went through the same conversation they’d been having, in one form or another, since Bilba’s thirtieth birthday. And indeed, as soon as Bilba set foot into the kitchen (though just how her mother knew when she’d arrived without turning from the stove nor hearing her approach Bilba could never determine), Belladonna was off, a small sigh and shake of her dark and tumbled curls the prelude her daughter had come to expect._

_“You know I only want you to be happy, dear, don’t you?” A plume of floral-scented steam came wafting from the mugs in Belladonna’s hands, set, one, two, upon the little kitchen table as she seated herself. “Jago’s always been such a nice boy, even if he is a few years younger than you, and a bit more of a homebody than most. I wish you’d given him at least a chance, starlight...”_

_Jago Boffin had been one of a near-constant line of suitors that had come calling over the last decade, some of their own accord (and those Bilba had preferred, though it had not won her heart in the end any more than the rest had done) and some at the bidding of their parents, or her own. He’d been entirely proper and honest in his attentions and intent, and she knew he meant it when he named her the most witty, charming lass this side of The Hill, but still it had only taken the one meeting before he’d been shown the door, with Bilba’s firm but kind dismissal and well wishes for his future prospects._

_“Of course! He’s a very good fellow, kind and considerate,” Bilba hurried to reply, for in truth she was rather fond of the Boffin lad—fond, but not_ **_fond_** _, which made all the difference. “You know that I don’t think ill of any of them, right, Ma?” And of course Belladonna knew that, and Bilba knew that Belladonna knew that as well, for all the good that it did either of them. “It’s only that… I suppose that I’d like to have what you and Da had,” she added after a moment, her voice quieted, as if to want such a depth of love was a silly thing to wish for. Her nimble fingers traced the rim of her teacup, feeling along each imperfection, each faint crack and worn edge. The dainty cups had been a wedding gift for her parents from some relation, and they’d grown to be too well-worn for use with company over time. Despite their wear, of all her family’s cups she loved these best, for their signs of use were a memory of the vast number of happy days the couple (and later, family, once Bilba’d been born) had shared_ **_together_ ** _sharing tea and scones and stories over them._

 _“Oh Bilba…” With a scoot and a slight scraping sound Belladonna nudged her chair around the table, and leaned over to wrap an arm around her only daughter’s shoulders. “I know, love, I know. What your Da and I had was very… very special indeed, and I would want no less for you.” She gave Bilba’s arm a gentle squeeze. “I only worry that you’ll be… well, that you’ll end up_ **_alone_ ** _if you wait much longer. I was five years younger than you are now when I married your father, after all, and...” And she didn’t have to say it. The facts were plain, as much as neither of them wanted to see them._

_Bilba was quite quickly approaching the point where the offers of courtship would slow and then begin to drop off entirely, though she was just as sprightly and energetic as she had been a decade before. Oh, the wealth of the Baggins name, and the luxury of Bag End would no doubt keep them coming bearing flowers for longer than most young ladies had the luck of, those who found themselves approaching spinsterhood, but no clever nor intelligent hobbit would take a suit that was offered solely out of greed. Still, in little enough time at all those remaining eligible bachelors of the Shire would begin to pair off with other, more welcoming lasses, and then where would she be? Alone, save for her mother… and even that was only a temporary fate, if Belladonna managed to last so long._

_The reality was that unless Bilba chose to settle down within the next few years, the odds were against her mother being there to see her crowned in floral glory, beneath the Party Tree in its full-blooming splendor. Bilba could feel Belladonna’s frailness in the thinness of her skin when she raised a hand to pat her arm, and see it in the distant look behind her eyes and in the slack waves of her curls, which once had wound as tight as springs. A slow wasting had come over her after Bungo had passed, and Bilba of course could not find it in her heart to blame her mother for eventually leaving her to go to him. After all, hadn’t she only just said that that sort of love, the sort that bound two hearts across time and space and the veil of death,_ **_that_ ** _was what she wanted for herself? Wasn’t that what she was waiting for, what made her turn every offer away?_

 _“I don’t want you to have to worry about that, Ma,” Bilba gave her mother a tight squeeze, leaning to bury her nose in her mother’s hair—it had always smelled of honeysuckle, and did so faintly even now, a comforting scent that could instantly center Bilba even in her foulest moods—before releasing her to lift her cup and sip the already-cooling tea. “Honestly, I’m not unhappy with things how they are.” She set the cup back on its saucer, and idly raised a hand to press lightly to her chest, just above her heart. It was a gesture she had often made since childhood, her gaze fading to someplace far away as she did, and Belladonna’s eyes followed the movement with a melancholic sort of understanding. “I suppose… if I had to choose between being alone and being with the wrong person, I would just rather be alone.” None of the lads (and none of the lasses either, for that matter) who had crossed Bilba’s path had ever made her heart sing, as she imagined it must if they were the right match. No fumbling kiss nor chaperoned walk, nor couple’s cozy picnic had struck the right chord to silver her heart with ribbons of gleaming light… nor had stirred the quiet presence she felt nestled at the depths of it to waking. That strange and certain knowledge that there_ **_must_ ** _be one to fit her soul both sustained her and restrained her—for her heart would brook none other than its intended match, and so she was made content in her waiting and patient longing._

_Perhaps Belladonna would have pushed her daughter harder to at least consider those who’d made their interests known had she not seen the face of such serene and secret desires on her daughter’s face at any talk of love all through her life. There was no doubting that, though alone Bilba Baggins might be, she was anything but unhappy with her apparent fate, and would be so at least until the right one came calling. Of course, at that time neither of them knew just how far Bilba would have to go to finally find the one her heart was meant for, but even if they had, it would have made little difference. For Belladonna’s only child, there simply was none other whom she could have loved in the whole of Middle Earth._

* * *

 

**_TA2941, July 17th_ **

To fly on the backs of eagles was not something Bilba had ever guessed she would experience, and if anyone had bothered to tell her before she’d set off on her adventure that not only _would_ she go soaring over mountaintops and sprawling river valleys, but that she would find it one of the most singular and exhilarating experiences of her life, well! She probably would have had quite the good laugh about it, given most hobbits’ fear of being anywhere higher than the branches of an apple tree. Indeed the sight of the world falling away into inscrutable shadow made her stomach dive, but oh! To look _up_ , up and towards the stars! Never had the heavens opened so wide as there above the clouds, away from the lights of lanterns and candles and warm crackling fires, and _never_ had she seen so very many stars before. So many that all thoughts of fear or chill from the wind, and all the tiredness she had felt in her bones melted away, to nothing but a nearly-tearful wonder at the tapestry laid out from horizon to horizon above and before her.

So entranced was she by the sight that the rest of their rapid travel east was lost to her, and it was only when the pale pink light of the rising sun at last blotted out the radiant sight of the heavens to paint them in streaks of morning did she come back to her senses, and with a wistful sigh of longing, look about in time to find herself and the rest of the Company stooping to rest atop a high perch of stone in the vague form of a bear’s roaring muzzle. She slid down from her eagle’s back and gave the towering bird a fond pat upon the leg before she ducked away that others might land. Where once she might have been distressed by its sheer size, now she was only grateful for the rescue and the joy it had given her. The rest of the Company seemed less thankful, all grumbling and eager to hobble away from the birds, and she half expected to hear Thorin scoffing at the whole affair and saying something about how dwarves weren’t meant to fly before she recalled how very battered he had been, hanging limply from an eagle’s talons the whole flight through.

Gandalf seemed to have him well in hand however, and it was not very long before the dwarf king came spluttering back to consciousness—the pealing cries of delight from his sister-sons were telling of his well-being, and a collective sigh of relief swept the Company through. Seeing that their charges were safe and mostly sound, the great eagles took flight in a rush, winging back the way they’d come with cries that sounded near enough to Westron to make Bilba give them a lingering look as they went. Gandalf too had paused in his ministering to Thorin to wave a farewell after them, his call echoing off the stone in their wake, “May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks!” And that seemed like rather the right way to bid them well.

Down at the wizard’s side Thorin had twisted on his seat to watch the eagles go, slowly looking ‘round as they shrank to faint dots against the brightening sky, mentally tallying his men—and his one hobbit, upon whom his eyes snagged and fixed, hardening in a brief flash of warning before he began to struggle to his feet.

“You!” His voice was a deep and fearsome growl, for the smoke of the fire upon the cliff and his own fierce battle cries had left it raw and ragged, “What do you think you were doing?” He shrugged from the steadying grasps of his kin to limp towards her, and Bilba felt it rather unfair how even at a hobble he could look quite so looming and intimidating. Right up into her face he stomped, eyes blazing and brows furrowed in some mix of what seemed to be fury and awed confusion. “Did I not say all along that you would be a burden? Did I not make _clear_ that you have no place among us, and that we have no use for you?”

Every word was worse than the last, striking to cut along Bilba’s heart—but her heart was not so soft as it had been before their travels through the goblin tunnels, and she hardened against his bladed tongue where before she would have shrank from it, her own brows driving further and further together, the thundercloud of her expression darkening at his prattle. This… this _oaf,_ this ungrateful _cad_! He had his very _head_ because of her, and yet he seemed insistent upon keeping it rammed so far up his own arse that he couldn’t see a damn—

“—I have never been so wrong in all of my—!” His arms rose to grab her, pull her in, but her mind registered his word too late, and already she’d let fly with a swift, open-palmed slap that threw the apology from his mouth and echoed in the sudden silence; Thorin was left stunned, frozen, his head snapped hard to one side and eyes wide in shock.

“No,” Bilba wheezed after just a moment, finally managing to breathe through the tangled rush of emotion. “You very probably _have_ been more wrong, Thorin, and you nearly _died_ because of it this time.” She was shivering with fury, or perhaps exhaustion, and her poor raw palm was throbbing—most likely she’d done more damage to herself than to his hard-headed highness with the strike. “You’ve been willfully ignorant, and, and _cruel_ when you had no reason to be. I _told_ you I would help you reclaim Erebor, and I can only imagine what other help you’ve turned away over the years, now that I’ve seen how you treat one who would willingly give up everything, even their own life, to aid you.” Her open hand slowly fisted, one finger left out to jab towards the dwarf, trembling as it did so. “So you mark me, _Thorin,_  and learn well from it, or I’ll give you one worse next time—I’ll not have you acting the fool any longer when I’ve already come this far, not to me or anyone else who you think is _beneath_ you when they offer their aid.”

She could feel a faint slickness on her palm, a trickle running down from between her fingers to her wrist, but she ignored it even when it began to drip down onto the stone between them, the faint red splatter drawing Thorin from his stunned stupor with another half-aborted reach for her. Her jabbing finger kept him at bay, thrusting dangerously near his nose with all the danger of a blade. “It seems to _me_ , Thorin, that you’d be _dead,_ and this quest _ended_ if any one of your _kindly-shared_ opinions had turned me back, or had you not thought of that? Well, I will _not_ let your people suffer the loss of you for your own _pig-headedness_! You will do _better_ , Thorin, when it comes to remembering that you are not in this alone, as much as you may _wish_ you were, and in _accepting the help of others_ in good faith and not _driving them away_! That is, of course, if you want to have any chance of being a good king, and _not to mention_ ** _becoming a king in the first place_** _!_ ” Her tirade ended on a high, near-strangled note, and brief gasp that became a long and deep breath, her nostrils flaring in aggravation.

She turned from the still-silent but decidedly scowling dwarf then, crossing her arms tightly across her chest (and gingerly pressing her ravaged palms into the soft fabric of her shirt, in hopes of slowing the bleeding from the right one) and shutting her eyes firmly for a long moment as she tried to find some calm. She had of course meant every word she had said, ill-timed and poorly received as they may have been, and it was a great relief to have emptied her mind of all she felt and thought of Thorin. Very probably though, she could have handled it with more tact. It was not her fault that the dwarf simply infuriated her at every turn! _The absolute idiot! He nearly lost his head all because he couldn’t_ **_keep it_ ** _for a few moments when faced with odds surely beyond him!_ And with him dead, what then? The quest would fail even if the Company hadn’t fallen next, and who knew what fate would befall his people when they never returned!

He was not at all what she had imagined a good king would be—and he could not be one if he kept putting his personal desires and grievances above the greater needs and good of his nation. It was one thing to _bring_ his followers into danger, and another to _lead_ them through it, and she was beginning to wonder if Thorin had any clue at the difference between the two.

A hand upon her shoulder ended her moment of reflection upon the Company’s leader, and she half expected him to be the one now behind her when the turned around. Instead upon looking back she found Óin, the gruff old healer gesturing for her to offer up her hands. “Let’s see them, lassie. Thorin’s tough skull is more than enough to split your soft hobbit skin, I wager.” She could see said hard-head over Óin’s shoulder, huddled with his nephews and glancing away as soon as he caught her looking. Slowly her eyes narrowed in suspicion as she watched him sag onto Fili’s offered arm. “He’s sent you over to treat me first, hasn’t he?”

“Well… aye. He has, considering it’s by his own fault that you’ve been hurt. Now, hands?” The old healer reached for them again, and Bilba deftly ducked his grasp. It was perhaps as kind a gesture as any their leader had granted her, and perhaps meant in apology or atonement, or something equally dwarvish and stupid as to honor her—and she was not having it.

“Did he not hear a _word_ I said? Óin, he is your _king_! The quest for your _home_ hangs on _him_ —go and tend to Thorin first before he falls off this bloody rock, or then we’ll all be right back where we started and I’ll have gotten _orc blood in my hair for_ **_nothing_**!” And that outburst, coupled with the truly fierce glare she leveled upon the whole of the Company just about settled it.

* * *

 

**_TA2941, July 20th_ **

Her hands still ached and were sorely stiff beneath the layer of salve and light bandages when she woke, three days later, in the pile of straw she’d bunched into a rather nest-like bed in the corner of Beorn’s hall.

And hadn’t that been a lovely surprise? Ohhh _yes_ , Gandalf had said he _knew_ _someone_ that might help them, hadn’t he? And conveniently left out the part where the man was also sometimes the biggest bear that had ever been seen, had a temper to match, and with it, a strong dislike of dwarves. It’d been a miracle they’d not been eaten on the spot, she’d been sure. Still, he was a gracious host once roused to treat with them, and a fierce enough defender that the Company had had no need to fear Azog nor his minions catching up to them while they lingered under the bear-man’s roof.

It had been a tense meeting, with Bilba all alone at Gandalf’s side (and goodness but the dwarves had pitched a fit over that necessity—better to trickle them in than come all at once and shock the fellow, apparently), staring up and up and _up_ at the massive bearded man, who’d done little more than grunt at the sight of Gandalf and sling his axe up over his shoulder—and that too was massive, quite large enough to cleave her in half with one stroke if he’d wanted. He’d been more than brusque with the wizard, all but set to turn him away without a shred of care, at least until he’d seen Bilba peeking around Gandalf’s robes like a child behind her mother’s skirts. A tense few minutes later—for Beorn had wanted to know who she was as well, and where from, and _what_ , as he’d taken her for an unusually short elf (though thankfully not a _child_ like some had done)—he had agreed to hear them out more fully, until the tale they had to tell was told.

Gandalf had spun what of it he knew, and when his knowledge flagged Bilba leapt in to take up the reins, for there were surely just as many parts he’d been absent from as present for. Tales of trolls and elves and giants and goblins, of her own path through the tunnels, for she did not know all of what had become of the dwarves in that time. By then most of the Company had joined them, and they had been equally as curious to hear of the strange twisted creature she had met beneath the mountains, and how she’d entertained it long enough to find her way out.

All mention of the ring she’d found was foregone, because it factored very little into her escape, if you asked her—and she was rather keen to have it as a souvenir, a little mathom to put behind glass upon her mantle some day, and not have to hand it over to any of the dwarves who might take a fancy to it. No, there was simply no reason to make mention of it, and she was blessed indeed that none of the dwarves seemed to have too much issue with how she’d managed to finally be rid of the Gollum-thing. “It seemed quite mad, really. And terribly sad… It took off running about, looking for this or that, and while it was distracted, I made off.” It rang faintly of the sort of opportunistic near-cowardice they had pegged her as apt to do before, and she found she could take little umbrage with that thought, given that she _had_ been hired on as a burglar, and not a warrior, though she’d been playing both parts of late.

In the end Beorn had been pleased enough with their story to bring them in and feed them, and give them shelter for some nights. The first day following their arrival had been one of near silence—with all the dwarves sleeping as deep as death, or otherwise recovering—and the morning after that at last things seemed to be looking up. They’d had baths and bread and honey, and Bilba had been more than happy to indulge herself in true hobbit fashion, though the sour stomach that followed from eating quite so much after so long of so little left her rather more patient and restrained in her feasting thereafter.

At one point on the second day, Thorin had made more restrained and apologetic overtures to her, which she had accepted as a matter of course. As it was, she was rather beside herself at the scene she’d made atop the carrock—he _had_ been apologizing then too, in his own way, and had recognized the fault in his previous behavior (though that was not a promise to rectify it going forward, she was well aware)—and she countered his apology with one of her own. Despite the fact that she had been the one to come off the worse for the blow she’d given him, that did not change that she’d struck a _king_ , as well as her employer, and the hero-leader of the entire Company. They’d mutually seemed to decide that she’d been rather right in what she’d said, and then quietly written off her aggression and assault as a product of the tension of the previous days.

They’d found a sort of mellow tolerance for each other thereafter, if not proper companionship. He still preferred the company of his own kind, of Dwalin, and Glóin, and his nephews, and she still rather would have whiled away the hours with Bofur or Balin or Ori, but no more did suspicious glares or upturned noses punctuate the moments when their paths crossed, and they even held a civil (if short) conversation at dinner the night following. It was about their plans for the journey ahead, of course, but it pleased her to be included in the talk, and to have her opinion taken into account when she happened to give it.

Now as she roused and pulled herself from the warmth of her bird-like nest amid the straw she found a much livelier discussion being had over breakfast between those of the Company that had woken before her and their host. All were bunched together along the long trestle table, many talking at once as they chewed their bread and sipped their cream. At the sight of her come ‘round the corner of the hall still rubbing the sleep from her eyes their chatter roared the louder, and before she knew what was what, Bofur’d hoisted her up to sit beside him. “And what about hobbits then? They all one-to-one for life, or are y’more like men, remarryin’ if one passes’n leaves yer better half behind?”

The questions were entirely unexpected, and it took Bilba half a moment to cotton onto what was being spoken of. It didn’t help that Kili, looking bright and eager (for trouble, no doubt, seeing as Fili had been dragged to the corner of the room by Thorin to talk about probably-more-important-things) for mischief had leapt into her stunned silence to heap even more wonderings to the mix. “I wouldn’t be surprised if hobbits married more than one at a time! Did you see all the little baby-hobbits—”

“Faunts,” Bilba corrected him automatically, still rather dazed.

“—Faunts, right, I said that, didn’t I? But there were so _many_! I can’t imagine one couple having as many as we saw come tumbling out of that little house with the yellow door, do you remember?” He nudged Bifur—who was currently paying no mind at all, busily accepting a bowl of ripe berries from one of the odd sheep that served as Beorn’s...servants?—with an elbow, nearly toppling the distracted dwarf before he turned back to the rest. “Not to mention them being alright with marrying other sorts as well, of course.” He tossed a wink Bilba’s way, leaving her blinking in stark confusion back.

“Marrying...other sorts?” She’d clearly missed something, had come in the middle of some _very_ odd conversation. She could only look on owlishly as Dori whipped around to cuff Kili on the back of the head in the blink of an eye, then turned further to offer a faint apologetic grimace to her, as Balin swept in to ease the apparent insult.

“You’ll have to pardon the prince for his _bluntness_. I’m sure your father was a lovely fellow, Bilba, even for an elf, and—”

“An _elf_?!” Her shrill squeal cut the elder dwarf off, as well as stifling the muttering of all the rest, who’d gone wide-eyed at her outburst. “You...you think my father was an _elf_?” For one utterly bizarre moment she could almost picture it—stout, stolid Bungo Baggins, six feet tall and _slender_ , graceful, with brown hair down to his waist and keen eyes to sight down his bow’s arrow, but somehow the same proper hobbit nose—and she cracked, a bubble of bright laughter erupting from her throat, the image shattering like a dropped egg. “No, no,” she wheezed out between gusts of hysterical delight. “Oh, my father would have locked himself in his study for hours at the _thought!_ ” The sheep that’d come bearing a bowl of berries for her had stopped dead at the sounds she was making, bleating in soft alarm and prancing back one step, then two.

“Well, that certainly settles that, I suppose,” Balin sighed beside her, shaking his head and tucking further into his breakfast. And Bilba did not miss how, under the table, he reached out to take a pouch (of coins, no doubt) from Nori, and then one from Óin further down. Kili had found his tongue by then and was scrambling to apologize for the misunderstanding, though to be frank Bilba only heard half of it, still quite caught up in the hilarity of her imaginings.

“To be completely honest,” she finally managed, still stumbling over the occasional chuckle and drawing the attention of the dwarves who were jeering and teasing Kili, as well as easing the poor lad’s stumbling appeasements. “They do say that long ago, one of the Tooks—my mother’s family, of course, her ancestors, and mine through her—took for himself a fairy bride, though that was so long ago that we’ve no records of it, from when the Shire was barely founded, and before the Thainship passed into the Took line. Perhaps _that’s_ a bit more palatable than my father,” and she had to pause to smother another snort of laughter then, “Well, preferable to my father being an elf? Though honestly, I still don’t quite understand what about that would so upset you.”

Of course, she had become quite familiar with Thorin’s prejudices in the last months, and the rest of the dwarves’ as well, and knew with them their reasons, their tales of betrayal and help denied. She couldn’t help but question the veracity them in the privacy of her own mind, but for now the better tactic was to divert than to let any of them build up any sort of head of steam upon that so-dreaded topic of _elves_. And so she continued on, not missing a beat. “It’s not unheard of for a young hobbit lad or lass, particularly those living nearer to Bree or over The Water, mind, not anyone from Hobbiton or thereabouts, goodness, but, yes. Yes now and then it happens that someone will get it into their heart to marry one of the big folk. It’s always quite the scandal, but those few I’ve known have seemed happy enough—I take it such couples are less common among dwarves?”

And her ploy had worked, for rather than grumblings about elves, she heard grumblings about ‘dwarven secrets’ and ‘allowed-to-tells’ from around the breakfast table. Balin ended up—by chance or because he was the typical spokesperson for the Company on behalf of such things—being the one to oblige her, though he cast a glance to where Thorin and Fili lingered, perhaps to see if their king approved (or more likely, if he was listening at all to even hear what was being said). “It isn’t _unheard_ of, really, but it’s far from common. You see, we dwarves understand it that our maker, Mahal, or Aulë, as you might know him, carved our people from stone. Our hearts he made of the purest metals and clearest gemstones, and filled them with his own love of working the matter of the world, and the natural bounty of the rock and deep places. In time he saw, however, that such love could prove too great, and leave our people feeling too well-fulfilled with their works of craft to bother finding love or companionship. And so, we say he broke the hearts of all dwarves into pieces, to be scattered into many of our kind, that we would spend all our lives searching for our missing halves.”

“So, I suppose it’s rather like the idea of having a soulmate, is that about it?” Bilba rather liked the idea behind it, though it rang more of an artistic interpretation than a literal one—not even dwarves, she imagined, had literal hearts of stone, after all!

“To a degree, though from what I know of men, they do not take the concept nearly as seriously as dwarves do.” Another glance towards Thorin and back, and then around at the Company. There was a faint tension, but no one said or moved to stop him from continuing—and that made Bilba feel rather honored indeed, to be allowed to know anything more of dwarven culture. “It varies from dwarf to dwarf, but for most… nearly all, really, there is only _one_ possible match. They may find companionship for a time before they find their rightful match, or after their One has passed—often with another who has lost their partner, though such relationships are little more than a, a commiserating, a friendship, really—no other relationship can hope to stand against the bond between those that Mahal has meant to be together, and no one would say a word against such a match. It is very… odd, for a dwarf to find such a partner in one of another race, but not unheard of. And, provided that the bond were true, it would be accepted, in the end.”

Bilba nearly asked if that would be the case should a dwarf find themselves attached to an elf, and not someone of the race of men, but thought better of the question. The rest of the dwarves were nodding along in agreement, so she could understand just how common and well-held the belief in their ‘ones’ must be. “And what of your royalty then?” Her eyes flicked towards Kili, who was far too keen at the thought of having his own One in the moment to mind her asking something relatively personal, all broad grin and lightly-pinked cheeks. “The realms of men seem not to care for their rulers’ feelings when it comes to mingling noble blood, from what I’ve read and heard.”

“Quite right—a backwards race, that of men, and you’ve my apologies for saying so, Beorn,” Balin dipped in a slight nod towards their host, who’d lingered listening beside the fire. The great bear of a man simply rolled a shrug, and Bilba got the firm impression that Beorn did not count himself among the race of men, or at the very least, he thought of himself as outside of such strange societies as they were talking about. “To force their kings and princes to marry one that is not their rightful match—it is no wonder that strife and war are so common among them. But no, you need not worry for Kili’s fate, nor Fili’s, nor even Thorin’s. None would stand between them and their Mahal-given partner.” In truth Bilba had meant to ask about the necessity of an heir, should a dwarf be unable to find their One, but something in the expression of the diplomatic dwarf made her think that might be pushing slightly too far. She supposed that they had their ways, and as she had no interest nor personal investment in the future of the lineage of Thorin’s line (beyond of course the reclamation of Erebor), she let her curiosity disperse. “Is it the same among hobbits then? Beyond the occasional mixing with the menfolk, of course,” Balin prompted, and that was that, as far as what he would share about the dwarves’ traditions and beliefs went.

“Hobbits are somewhere in the middle, I think. Most of courting age will take multiple suitors, you know, spend time with each to see which feels right and fits best, before they decided. And some, like my parents, decide very quickly, and know right away that they’ve found… well, that they’ve found the ‘one’ for them, to use your own phrase, and will tolerate no other courtship. They’ll marry, and it usually _is_ just the two, though from time to time a trio will crop up—all parties being happy, and it’s none of anyone else’s business what goes on behind smial doors, of course—and stay together until Yavanna takes them.” Her voice fell to quiet, her blue eyes hazing with memory as she thought back to when Bungo had passed, and her mother’s slow decline thereafter. “If the one left behind is young enough, they might eventually remarry. Many will find companionship in their families, or among close friends, if not. For those lucky enough to have a real, deep, _true_ love, like my… my parents… Well, it’s a lovely thing, really. And tragic. They don’t, don’t _fade_ , really, not like the elves at least, but they simply… lose heart, after some time, and will pass on as well, because there’s more to go _to_ than to _stay_ for, I suppose.”

It had been a bittersweet pain for her, to know that Belladonna could not stay for her daughter alone, but she had understood it, and not wanted her mother to suffer. It had been almost a relief when she _had_ passed, because Bilba knew she no longer was in mourning or missing her Bungo. Still, it had left Bilba all alone in that great empty smial, hadn't it? She could never have asked her mother to stay longer than she had, even though the ache of her loss had been incredible. Thankfully none of the dwarves were obtuse enough to miss the implications of what she’d said, and none of them asked further as to the fate of her parents—they too had been well aware of how empty her little hobbit hole had been when they’d come barging in those months ago, and they were blessedly more clever than they sometimes seemed to be.

Dear gentle Ori was the next to speak, and that it was him was a part of why his question was so well-received by Bilba when he asked it. From the very beginning, he had been the most innocently curious, the most considerate of her feelings, and she knew that Ori would never ask anything meant to hurt her, never with malicious intent, and she gave the woolen knit-wrapped dwarf a gentle smile as he stammered, “Were, were you ever… ever courted, Miss Bilba? We haven’t… we haven’t stolen you from anyone, have we?”

He seemed honestly distressed at the thought, and she was quick to reassure him. “No, there’s nothing to worry about in that regard. I was considered quite the settled spinster by the time you lot came calling—that’s not to say I never courted, of course, but no, you’ve not stolen me from anyone.”

“Ehhh, bit surprised, if’m honest. Y’seem like a fine hobbit lass, just the sort to appeal to a proper little fellow,” Bofur chimed in, winking over his toast and jam. “Bit lacking in terms of beard for me, mind,” He ran his fingers along his moustache and down to his chin as he said it, twirling one end. “But right enough if you don’t mind that sort of thing!” A chorus of agreement—not from all the dwarves, and it was clear that some of them were only nodding along to be polite—followed, and Bilba raised a hand to wave them down.

“And a _kind_ offer indeed, Bofur, though I don’t think I could deprive all the lovely dwarf lads and lasses of your bawdy self, even if you didn’t mind my lack of scruff.” She shook her head, curls bobbing and her lips pressing together in a muted smile. “To be honest, I had plenty to pick from, once upon a year, but none… well, none were _right_.” She leaned back in her chair as she let their names and faces filter through her mind. She’d had the benefit of a good family and plenty of wealth behind it, and gotten more than her fair share of flower bouquets and tea invites over the years. Idly she massaged the place over her heart as they passed in her memory, her mind turning to more to vague half-formed fantasies when the list ran dry. “I suppose that’s the trouble with growing up seeing your parents be more in love than anyone else you’ve ever met. I always wanted what they had, and…”

“And none of them were your One, aye, that’s a commendable enough reason to turn them away!” That was Glóin, one hand fisted around his locket. They all of them had been subject to the ginger dwarf’s long-winded tales of his wife’s charms at some point or other—she was his One beyond any doubt—and he’d been stoutly agreeing all through Balin’s explanation of how dwarves loved.

Bilba’s smile deepend, her kneading fingers stilling to splay above her breast, her yet-sore palm pressed over the ever-present point of yearning that was seated there. “Well, I suppose they weren’t, were they?” She had no regrets at how things had ended up, looking back. And perhaps, someday, she would find where she was meant to be, and whom she was meant to be there with. It was a fine dream to hold onto, as unlikely as it seemed.

The conversation petered off after that, the dwarves scattering to tend their weapons or pack their bags, for though Bilba would be very happy to linger under Beorn’s roof for at least another week, time was short, and they were to leave before the morning was done. Orders were called out, Thorin and Fili having returned to the table at one point to send those of the Company this way and that to fetch supplies (and Beorn had been ind in giving them many) and prepare ponies (and Beorn had given them as well, though not only until they reached the edge of the forest), but Bilba lingered over her breakfast, enjoying the quiet peace that was not to be had again for some time, she was sure. She’d packed her bags the evening prior, and had given back those few items belonging to the Company that she had recovered while in Goblin Town as well, which had left her with very few of her own things that she had started out with from Bag End three months ago. The addition of food and water was a weight she minded carrying very little, and she’d come to learn how to do without rather a lot of things since first she’d headed out her green little door. She had her blade, her hairpin, and her ring, and though she would have liked the time to cobble together more clothing—the bundled dress Elrond had gifted her so long ago had survived _somehow_ , but it was far from fit for the road—she knew she could survive in what she had on her person.

She wouldn’t care to smell herself a week or two down the road, but she could survive.

Once she’d had her fill she joined the others, as well as taking the time to sift through Beorn’s gardens for anything edible or medicinal they might use. There were some tasty greens to be had, though she knew the dwarves would rather keep to the nuts and honey and sealed jars of dried fruits that Beorn had given them, she would not turn up her nose when the pains of hunger came creeping in. The colorful blooms Beorn’s over-sized bees tended were worth a second (and third) look as well, though she knew quite well they were nothing of use—still, food for the soul was _food_ , wasn’t it?—though she eventually left off of the blooms to meander further in her search, taking with her only a few petals off a rose, wrapped around a stray acorn she’d stepped on while crossing the yard—a fine little memento to ease her spirit, and perfectly sized to fit in her pocket beside the ring.

She spent a little time amid the herbs and roots the skin-changer grew, pulling up a bit of anything that could supplement Óin’s salves, which were running rather low after the damage the goblins and Azog had meted out upon the dwarves. With their host’s permission she also scraped a bit of bark from a willow on the edge of his gardens, to be used to ease minor pains. She brought to Óin her gatherings before they made their final rounds and then took to the ponies they’d been lent, and the old dwarf was glad to have them, giving her a fond pat on the head and cinching the pack of the firmly to his side. With a little luck they would not be needed, but Bilba was rather dubious on that matter—and later as they turned their mounts towards the distant and dark line of the forest’s edge, tossing waves of thanks and farewell over their shoulders back towards their host, she couldn’t help but wonder just how long they’d manage before trouble once more managed to find them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More or less all the assorted courtship styles and thoughts of the various races on soulmates/Ones/whatever you’d like to call it are just plucked out of the aether, but seem to be fairly standard within the fandom. There’s no real hard and fast rules set down for any of the races in terms of pairing, aside from with the elves, so basically I’m just doing whatever I feel like doing. Which is what I’ve been doing the entire time anyway, so…
> 
> "Mathom" is the hobbit term for anything which they had no use for but were unwilling to throw away, and often were placed in homes in a decorative fashion. Hobbits considered most weapons and trophies as mathoms, given how generally peaceful they are.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely Lumenne, who is a gift and a wonder! Shout out to our darling anxiouscrab, who is currently travelling overseas on an adventure of their own!!

**_TA2, March 21st_ **

_A slow and languid sun rose to spread the warm light of dawn over the Greenwood, ushering in the first elven new year of the Third Age and laying to rest the pains of the Second, drawing them ever further from sight and mind like the fading stars above as they gave way to spiraling notes of birdsong. At last the Stirring time was done, and the world become awake in the riotous vigor of Spring; all around that fair kingdom life began anew in the bright eyes of the forest’s creatures and the pale golden-green shades of fresh-budding leaves. Cool morning dew wrapped the world in a sheath of glittering diamonds, and the low mists, yet to burn away beneath the sun’s touch, made mysteries of meadows, steams, and fens._

_Within Emyn Duir a great fete was in the making, although the mood of all whom worked thereon was mingled in curious grief and gladness—for to rejoice in wonder at the crowning of one king was this day but a coin’s flipped face for the woesome mourning of another. The banners they hung and pennants, flapping bright and blithesome against the morning air, stood in bitter counterpoint to the lingering shadow of loss that draped the elven halls yet still, and quick to flee were any smiles that rich aroma or pleasant song did lift. There deep within the mountain halls, the prince of elves—now to be king by ritual as well as right and need—felt little joy within himself, for the lamentations of his heart were shared by many of his people who had themselves also lost kith or kin, or both, in the battle before the Black Gate._

_But it was_ **_for_ ** _his people that he knew he could not afford to clutch and cling to his grief, and must set it aside to wear the calm mien and present face of king. Where Thranduil Oropherion could not in so short a time forget the horror and sorrow of the southern war—nor would he ever put it fully from his mind, even some thousand years hence—he knew he must endure. Must give his people a new start, and safe surety as at last the days of darkness were peeled back to give way to the light of a new year and era; one that he dearly wished he could believe would be as full of hope as they deserved of it._

_He could not deny what he had seen upon the slopes of Mount Doom, nor rest his mind from fear, and the fate of Sauron’s Ring weighed as heavily upon him as his father’s crown when at last it came to sit upon his brow. To cheers and choiring song did Thranduil, now Elvenking and crowned in spring’s first blossoms, rise before the tattered remnants of the nation Oropher had built, and with solemn intent did vow unto himself to triumph where so many others had failed before. He would spare them all from the darkness of the wider world, if he could, and already thoughts of what must be done came into his mind, and faint visions of the path unwinding before him into the distant and unknowable future. Too long had the wills and wars of others moved about them, tossing them as if they were but leaves on a strong wind—but no more. Looking upon so many faces, all turned to him to guide and guard them made him sure and certain in his heart. He would plant their roots anew and deep, and set a watch about the garden he would tend for his people, and suffer them no harm there within his sight where he could keep them._

_But there was one above all others whom his heart was moved to care for. One of all of those who turned to bow and defer as he drew near, one whom he could not bear to see hide the sight of her eyes, nor dim the light within them beneath a veil of formality. As strains of gentle music filtered into the hall and bore up and through stone and wood one last lament, to sing to rest the spirits of those who had gone before and light a flame anew within those left behind, he sought her out, and for the first time since that dark day upon the Dagorlad he felt his heart stir from the shadow that had been cast upon it. In a gown of gold and pale-green flowers, with streaks of sunset purple peeking through, she was a vision, and the sight of that gift he had given her (a promise, and one he yet recalled) nestled in her hair drew at last a smile from him. He asked for nothing from her then, for he knew nothing would she deny to him as king, but simply called her name in wonder and fixed the sight of her within his mind, to carry ever after._

_And perhaps she sensed how great his fond want of her was, how for her alone his heart turned gentle and soft again, for she lingered at his side throughout the day and night of revels, and they together stood as beacons to light their people’s way to a new gladness. They turned and danced, and drank and feasted, and for a moment they could imagine that this was only any other faire, any other holiday of the newly-dawned year, and that the crown of blooms he wore was a simple wreath woven by caring hands from wildflowers as common as fallen leaves in autumn, and not as weighty as it was. All the day thereafter too she remained, as the celebration of the elves kept on and on until at last the Spring had sprung, and back to their works and labors all must go._

_Then Thranduil did take Mindonel aside, and casting off his crown, come to her as himself alone: as friend and dear companion, and nothing of his kingship kept about him. Then, and_ **_only_ ** _then, in plainness did he ask for her hand, and slip a band of silver about her finger, and she on his, and they shared both bitter tears and sweet, for they neither of them yet had living families left to rejoice with in their hearts’ union._

_Morning saw the messengers of the Greenwood in full flight, their swift long legs to carry them east and west, north and south, with tidings of glad news. An autumn wedding was to come, to suit the height of harvest, and all should be rejoicing, and join the elves there beneath the trees should they be able: those kings and lords of men and dwarves and elves, and chief among them had the Elvenking bid to make merry with them Isildur, whom above all others he desired council with._

* * *

**_TA2, October 7th_ **

_It was with gladder tidings that the elves of the Greenwood raised their voices in song to greet their realm’s new queen beneath a starry autumn sky. She was to their eyes as gentle and soft as the king was fierce and strong, and the lands and peoples had flourished under their combined care. The wounds of yesteryear had slowly begun to knit, though the scars of their passing would long remain upon their immortal hearts—still, they thought, perhaps now things could begin to return to as they had been before the creeping darkness of the south had come to cast its shadow across the world._

_Robed in august splendor and crowned in golden laurels, Mindonel made such a radiant sight before Thranduil as she danced and spun and shone for all to see, that he nearly could forget that lingering displeasure at the edges of his mind—for of those he had entreated, Isildur had not arrived, though he’d journeyed beneath the eaves of the forest only a week ago. What scouts had been sent to guide them found them not at the appointed place, and had yet to return from their explorations further abroad in search of that king of men. Yet in the haze of his heart’s passion, the Elvenking had been loathe to wait, and comforted himself in knowing that the revels of his people would last for some days, and plenty time enough to host the lost and laggard king._

_And so he let himself rejoice, and fair among his people; to laugh and dance and drink from dusk ‘til dawn, and to hold his bride close and tender beneath the Fading-touched leaves, and smile to see them falling, red and orange and gold, and caught among her hair. He gave to her three kisses there, before to their company they returned; one upon her brow, one to her tresses long and soft as silk, and one on that fair mithril blossom she yet wore nestled against her crown. To him she gave her secret smile, and the starlight-shining love within her eyes was for him alone, and they were happy there, beneath the autumn boughs, making merry until at last the sun was risen._

_Then at last, as his wife among their people went once more, did Thranduil catch sight of those scouts he had tasked with the finding of Isildur, and with a glance draw one of them to his side. The sight of her grim-faced and harried dimmed the light within his view, and in quick and quiet terms they spoke, until at last in dread did Thranduil depart from the feasting, leaving all his friends and his bride as well behind with his long and purposed gait. Into the deep halls of the mountains led his scouts, down to rooms well hidden and rarely used, to a sight most grievous to the Elvenking’s heart._

_There as if asleep lay the fallen king of men, though little mistaking could be made—Isildur was dead, his body rent by arrows black and crude, pierced through throat and heart. The heavy autumn rains had caused the river Anduin to flood, and it was therein that his body had been found, waterlogged and tangled in thick reeds. A further chancing revealed the extent of loss their allies had suffered, for the Gladden Fields were rife with fallen men and orcs, and among them were Isildur’s sons as well, save one, whom he had left in Rivendell near to ten years before._

_In wrath and grief did Thranduil dismiss his scouts, and then alone with the late king did dare to search his person. Just what he sought would not be found, not by himself or any other, and when at last the Elvenking returned to the celebration of his kin, his wife did wonder at the cold touch of wary fear within his eyes. To that question alone would he refuse to answer her, no matter how many times she asked it of him, even well after Isildur’s body had been buried deep beneath the mountain and his nation’s borders reinforced thrice over. And so in watchful silence was the fate of Isildur, and the One Ring with him, lost. For over 2,400 years the Dark Lord’s ring would remain so, forgotten and dismissed by all the world but few, until at last by chance it was recovered by the hobbit, Déagol, and with him his cousin—Sméagol, who was later known only as Gollum._

* * *

**_TA2941, July 21st_ **

“We do not understand what has caused it, my lord. The spiders have redoubled their attacks, and they swell in size far greater than what we have seen before. They are nothing beyond our abilities, I assure you, but—” The elven soldier’s words died at the flick of his king’s hand, though there was no malice in the motion. For the last five days the Mirkwood guard had been turned out in force, and though at first they knew not why their king would suffer them to arms in a time of relative peace and plenty, they soon saw for themselves the rallying creep of darkness that Thranduil had forseen amidst their feasting revels. At every border of their lands it flickered: that sickness the wood had known half a century ago had come again to darken leaf and stem, and with the sickness came probing, testing forays of the great black spiders they had thought to have culled. Even beyond their canopied realm an evil seemed to have awoken, for orcs had been seen creeping from the Misty Mountains and lurking near the forest’s edge by nightfall. They seemed to search for something, though what was or whom was unknown, and those that drew too deep into the wood in hunting it were made sure to never exit there again. Still, it was a troubling sign, and Thranduil had commanded their every move be watched and reported back to him.

“I am sure that the realm may rely upon you and your patrols to keep it safe,” Thranduil’s voice slid strong and smooth throughout the hall, his sharp blue eyes intent upon the guard—and yet distant, aloof and unseeing, and heavy with the weight of his thoughts. “Take care not to press too far from our borders. Let not fear nor fury overtake you or your soldiers; I would not lose a single elf for these wretched beasts.” With that same hand held aloft, he waved the bowing guard away, and sat back slightly upon his throne, his thoughts whirling deep and tumultuous. That hand which he had not lifted was clutched, his knuckles pale and near to white, upon his seat’s arm, though the wood and antler of it bore the strain without so much as a creak of complaint.

Since the vision that had beset him amidst his people’s feasting he had dreaded what now he saw and heard and felt. Once more was darkness rising, and it made the Elvenking wary and suspicious, and soured his temper to all who sought him out with aught but good news. It was a reminder to him that no good thing could last while evil lingered in the world, and it was bitter medicine indeed to swallow, though one had had become well used to. Day and night he had monitored the comings and goings of his soldiers, and the changing threats they faced. Again but two days past Tauriel had come to him, to beg to drive the spiders from their nests in the far south, and again he had denied her, guessing that where before it would have been a sorely trying task, now it would be all but impossible—for the deepest of the darkness he had seen and felt lay to that direction.

To assuage her he had given the captain command of a larger force, and she alongside Legolas had set about clearing what lands belonged to the elves with a vengeance. The absence of his son—who once he had summoned his troops at his father’s command had been loathe to leave his side—made the king’s worries only grow, though he had few doubts indeed as to the prince’s skills and cleverness in combat. Still, accidents could take even the most adept, and he had lost those he loved too many times before to gladly suffer it again. There was at least some comfort in the knowledge that Tauriel would do her utmost to protect Legolas, even unto her death if she must… and with that thought had come other worries, though strange and small they seemed against the kingdom’s greater troubles.

So passed the hours, Thranduil receiving each report and list with cold and solemn duty, until at last the two he sought to hear from most came striding in through the hall’s far door. From his throne the Elvenking rose at once, the quickness of his movements betraying the wearied state of his vigil, and descended to greet them at the foot of it, a faint smile there and gone at the sight of his son, unharmed. “My lord.” Tauriel dipped in a sharp bow upon his drawing near, her eyes cast down in deference. Beside her Legolas moved as well, though where her gaze had lowered, his had risen to meet with Thranduil’s, and his bow was little more than a nod of his head.

“Father. It is good to see that little yet has come of the spiders’ efforts. Not once beyond the edges of our realm did we find any of their filth.” Legolas’ words were sure and full of the eager confidence of youth, though his eyes still searched his father’s face, for all that it gave up nothing. “None of their nests have taken hold—we’ve burned them where we’ve found them, though I worry the fire will spread. It is summer yet, and the trees about our borders are less lush than those here.” It was a fair thing to worry about, and Thranduil was proud to think that his son had done so. Still, there was little for it but to burn back the sprawling webs and bulging egg sacs, and he said so with words of caution plenty.

“You have done quite well.” He gripped Legolas’ arm in an affirming if brief gesture before his son stepped back to fall in line with Tauriel, sharing a brief look with the Silvan elf that did not go unnoticed. “Still, I fear that more will come,” Their attention snapped back to their king, and the way they subtly moved apart he noticed too, even as he circled back towards his throne. “We must secure our people’s homes, ere the edge of night approaches. We do not know what has stirred these foul creatures from their nests, but we cannot allow them to take root.” He turned upon the step, his gaze dragging over the pair of them, both so young and keen, as sharp as the arrows and blades they carried. “But for now, rest. In the morning you will redouble your hunt.” More than the spiders, he wished to know the purpose of the orcs that dawdled as if waiting outside the forest, and to that end he would send these two—for they were swift among his people, and sharp of eye.

To Tauriel he motioned her dismissal, and the auburn-haired elf was quick to obey and leave father and son alone to speak at their leisure. Only a moment after her steps faded did Legolas spring to his father’s side, and together they spoke a while longer: of the state of their lands and what Thranduil had seen that night, and in cautious words, of the natures of themselves, and the time they had lost in centuries past. Still the Elvenking kept from his son the full truth of his state (and in truth he had barely noticed the bond since it had flared to life that night, bright and terrible—and had since been so fixated upon his people’s foes that all but the least of thoughts had been spared from it) and turned Legolas’ focus to other things for as long as he seemed apt to wonder at it, and Thranduil was happier than he could recall having been in years, with only his son at his side to speak with.

A great deal of Legolas’ thoughts and tales revolved around the Silvan elf, Thranduil eventually came to see. For lack of other company, perhaps, the two had paired quite willingly, and spent much time together, and more than most. Affection was clear in his son’s voice, if not love in his eyes, and it made his father wonder if he had missed that as well, and resolved to speak to Tauriel herself about it before they departed his hall. He had not foreseen such a fate for his son, and was curious at his own hesitancy about it—but in his heart of hearts he knew that if she _was_ his match, there was little Thranduil could do to part them. As he had been reminded himself a half-century before, such things were the work of fortune, of doom and providence, and beyond any but Eru Ilúvatar himself to dictate. Still it would take time to contemplate, if indeed that was the case, and it was with a growing sense of introspection that at last Thranduil bid his son depart from him, and lingered, thoughtful, atop his seat and into the night.

* * *

“Tauriel. A moment?” The voice of her king startled Tauriel, come unexpectedly to where the Silvan elf stood leaning against the railing of one of the hall’s terraces to gaze out over the starlight-spangled heavens above the dark treetops. In haste she spun to bow before him, near to stammering in her surprise, for such encounters, to be _approached_ by him, were rare indeed. And rarer still would he seek one out for any positive reasons. “My lord Thranduil, forgive me! I had not noticed your arrival, nor did I think to ignore you—what need have you of me, my king?” She fought not to shrink from his stare when she looked up, finding the full weight of his noble and piercing attention fixated upon her.

It was a moment before he responded, and she fought not to fidget under the intensity of his gaze. Just what he sought to find was beyond her, but at length he seemed resolved, as if he’d decided something, and spoke then at last. “Legolas has been quite generous in his praise of your efforts, and your valiance in defending our lands. He has many kind words as to your dedication and your skills in battle.” That recognition was not what the elf-maid had expected to hear, and her somber expression flickered into a faint smile, clearly heartened to know herself well thought of, and worthy of her rank. “Indeed, it seems you are _often_ in his thoughts… and I find myself wondering at such _fondness_.” The Elvenking was not himself smiling now, and his implications chased the warmth from Tauriel’s blood. He did not so much as move towards her, yet still she had the distinct feeling of being stalked, being hunted, such as never she had felt even out beneath the forest’s great trees. His eyes snared hers when they met, and held her gaze for what felt far longer than some few seconds, boring in and seeking, searching…

And then he released her, his long lashes falling to dust over his high cheeks and breaking his eyes’ iron hold upon her as he turned away in contemplative satisfaction. At once and with a sharp breath of relief she stepped back, yielding the central point against the railing as he drew nearer, drifting to his side (quite far enough as to be respectful, but yet at hand), and stole a glance up at him as he stared now out over the vast realm that was his own to rule. “I would not see him come to harm, neither in body nor in heart, you understand,” he murmured, and then raised a hand to halt her when she moved to speak. “If what care you have for him is that of friend alone, then I would warn you; do not give him hope where there is none. Hearts once given cannot be returned…” An absent thought drew his hand to hover over his breast, the subtle thread’s staccato beating there in tandem with his heart barely loud enough to notice. “…And rare indeed are second chances among our people. I have trusted you thus far, Tauriel, with my soldiers and my people. Do not make me regret in trusting you with my son.”

Tauriel’s first thought was to reassure her king that his son could not, did not, think of her as more than a captain of the guard. The sight of him however, looking to her with such guarded trust writ in his face, and a deep affection for his son that she had not seen in his blue eyes before, left her silent. With all the patience of one who had seen near to seven thousand years go by, he waited for her to consider both her own feelings and her words, though he offered her no aid as emotions warred upon her face. In truth she did quite enjoy the prince’s company—for he looked at her as if she were his equal, and not a lowly Silvan elf—but she knew that the love within her heart was that of a sister for him, a close companion, but not a lover. It was not unheard of among their kind to long for one they could not have, and those that fell to such a fate were doomed to linger in their longing, and apart from those they cherished, for their love never fading and yet could never be returned. It was a tragic and bittersweet lot to be cast for one who lived forever, and the thought of creating such a future for her dearest friend distressed Tauriel greatly.

...But no, she must believe that they were only as they seemed, and friendship all that grew between them, lest dismay claim her and ruin even that friendship which they did have. “I… I can assure you, my lord—I would see no harm befall him.” And firm was her conviction and resolve as she turned to face her king more fully, to let him mark her at her word. “It is only by chance that we have grown so close, but I would not trade that friendship for any other bond between us. He is dear to me, though not in the… the way of lovers.” In truth part of what had made it easier to grow that friendship between them was that neither of them had felt their hearts stir to love, despite them both counting over a thousand years of life. It was strange and rare for elves to remain alone for so long, and they had found a commonality in their unusual fate. But that did not mean that they meant to make spouses of each other, nor to divert the other’s course; it was simply that a life bereft of any bonds was painfully lonely, and to neither of their liking, and so they walked together rather than walk alone.

All this Thranduil could read within her eyes, and at last found himself assured. He pulled his hand from over his chest, to tip it towards her in gentle dismissal before he returned to his star-watching. He left the younger elf to make a hasty retreat, though she glanced back but once to where he stood and wondered at his thoughts. She shook herself from her own tangled thinking, resolved to carry on as she always had and make no mention of the odd encounter to Legolas—though in truth there was wariness within her now, and a small amount of fear that had not been there before was with it.

Now quite alone, and with no more scouting parties near to returning, Thranduil allowed himself a moment of respite from the narrow band of focus he had fixed upon himself. Despite the poisonous gloom that draped in miasmatic clouds over the southern woods and near the nests the spiders made, here at the heart of his realm the air was clean and sweet. He drank it in, one long breath and then another, feeling how it lightened and buoyed him against all worry and weariness. Still lay his hand where it had returned to over his heart, and his fingers stroked absently at the silken fabrics there. He had afforded himself no chance to consider the bond his own soul lay wrapped by, not since that feasting evening—but now, with such thoughts of fate and burdens shared by caring spirits upon his mind, a grim concern came over him.

The Elvenking had no idea that the horrid burst of darkness wreathed in flame had come _to him_ through that bond they shared—instead, he feared the opposite, and felt his pulse quicken at the sudden thought that perhaps the ferocity of his vision had struck whomever was intended for him as well. Such terror had clutched him in that moment that, even though he greatly doubted that _other’s_ awareness of their link, he wondered if it had not gripped their heart as well. Was that, perhaps, why the thread that bound them had been so faint, so comparatively exhausted and silent ever since? It had not snapped (and he traced his mind along it to where it faded out and away from him to reassure himself of that fact) nor been lost completely, but still some small and worried guilt lapped at the shores of his soul for any harm he’d done to them. Though he did not know them, already he had found himself becoming keen to do so… and fearful for their fate, as they lay yet outside his sight.

Still, he could not afford to set aside for long the guarding of his people to wonder after one being, no matter how tightly wound to him they were. Though some part of his heart yearned to cry out for them, to find them and reassure himself that he had not through his own actions caused them pain, he could not. His realm was not safe, not with such dark creatures crawling at the doorstep, and he knew too well the cost of putting love over duty—how much could be lost in the blink of an eye, or the speeding time of an arrow’s flight. He had more pressing matters to bend his mind to, more immediate and threatening; still it took him more than one long moment to bid himself to release his grasp upon that faintest string, letting it settle again in near-silent pulsing beneath his ribs.

What was done was done, and he could no more change it than a thousand other moments of the past he would have done differently if only he had known how to as they happened. There was nothing for him now but to carry on, and remain vigilant and watchful over those already beholden to him. He left the view behind him as he descended again into his hall, and closed his mind to all but the task at hand. More than that one soul entwined with his would suffer if he wavered in his duty, and though it was not his wish to do so, he knew that he must weigh them against each other, until the day that _other_ joined him in his home, and realized (or broke, though it caused him great pain to consider that they might) their bond. And even then, for all that he might wish it otherwise, he knew he yet must choose his people over passion. At least he knew that he could bear the weight of loss’ grief if such a price was asked of him once more.

* * *

The next morning saw the backs of Tauriel and Legolas, and with them their fair company, all marching swiftly west in search of the orcs and what they hunted. Side by side they went, and it was a comfort and reassurance to Thranduil to see the pair ever watchful of each other, and now properly through the lens of companionship alone, and not a half-shared love as he had feared. One less worry upon his mind made little difference, but it had been a dear one to him, and he felt with keen satisfaction the absence of it now. And he felt delight as well, when at the rise, where the road turned out of sight from the doors of the Elvenking’s great hall, Legolas stopped to turn and wave back, when he had not so done before since he was a child. Thranduil himself only raised a hand to them as they turned again to go, a king’s solemn salute more than a father’s warm parting, but even from that distance he marked his son’s smile. Though it had pained him to know that his fears of old had been well-founded; though now the darkness had come again to test and try their spirits; though there were things of great import still left unsaid between them… there was, it seemed, some not-small good in these recent days—the regard of a son for his father, and their slowly-mending bridges, were not to be overlooked, nor brushed aside.

As at last Legolas’ golden head sank below the hill’s low rise and behind the thick trunks of the trees there, Thranduil felt his smile falter, and after another moment turned to stride back into the depths of his halls. All around him the calm silence of the morning lay thick and muting, and his steps echoed about the subterranean chasm as he crossed to ascend the stairs once more to his throne. He sat back upon it, the familiar curve of wood and antler a comfort beneath his hands, and breathed a long and silent sigh as he began the wait for his son to return once more. As always he had done, he would endure—this new threat would be sussed out and dealt with, and he resolved that upon Legolas’ arrival, they would find a time to speak of what they must. There was no point in delaying any longer, and was it not better to have it done, and begin again to win his child’s trust if it was lost than to let the truth go unsaid?

Some selfish part of him did hope that, by speaking of it now, there would be time for Legolas to come to accept his father’s fate—and shed his anger, if anger was his response as Thranduil feared it would be—and perhaps that when at last this new _other_ was revealed, they might something of a family make. Tauriel’s words had reached the Elvenking beyond what she had intended, and he had thought long through the night and hard upon the isolation he had caused to befall his son after his mother’s passing. While Thranduil perhaps still felt that he did not deserve the gift he had been given, Legolas at least deserved to find some happiness and respite from weary solitude… even if that meant being well-informed enough to chose to depart, and find himself a better-fitting life, for all that it would surely sunder his father’s heart to lose him.

Thranduil shifted upon his throne, one long leg slung over the other as he sank into the depths of his thoughts, his hand once more finding and kneading at that gently twanging spot above his heart as his eyes sought far-distant sights and imaginings. He had some time to consider what he would say and how, time before any of the scouting parties returned and had need of his command… And surely it would be a _long_ time yet indeed before whomever it was that lay at the other end of that softly humming golden thread that spun out in leagues from his soul appeared. More time than he would need to find the words, both for Legolas and this new fate, of that he was utterly certain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on Stirring, Fading, and the Elven New Year: Middle earth uses like three different calendars, none of which perfectly line up with our own. The dates I’m using to mark the timeline throughout the chapters are based on our calendar, as that’s what Tolkien used throughout the Hobbit, and we have some set dates on the timeline to work with. The elven new year starts on the spring equinox (as does the new year as reckoned by men after the end of the Third Age), and elves have six months/seasons on their calendar. The last month of their calendar is "Echuir", which means Stirring—it is the time between Winter and Spring, and ends with the Spring Equinox. It seemed a good time to have Thranduil’s coronation, because I feel like the elves would enjoy the symbolism of laying the old year and king to rest at the same time. They then have Summer and Autumn, and then "Firith", which means Fading, and then Winter. Thranduil and Mindonel were wed in the middle of Firith.
> 
> Usually elves are betrothed for a full year before they wed, so Thranduil did move a little fast with Mindonel, I suppose. Still, perhaps the excuse for so much joy after all the death and sadness of the years before was enough to merit having it a bit early? and they'd been 'together' a while by then too. I also wanted to tie their wedding to the Disaster of the Gladden Fields, for obvious reasons of Thranduil desiring to try to relieve Isildur of the Ring when he had him in his own kingdom. 
> 
> In canon, Isildur left Gondor to travel to Arnor (where he intended to rule—he’d left the rule of Gondor to his late brother’s children) by way of Rivendell. He meant to talk to Elrond there about the Ring, because he’d come enough to his senses to realize he could not master it. He and his company, as well as his eldest three sons, were beset by orcs upon the Gladden Fields, and cut down. Isildur fled across the river at his eldest son's behest, but it had flooded and was very fast and strong, and he was exhausted by the time he made the western shore, and got tangled in the reeds where the ring betrayed him to his death. Canonically, his body was never recovered, and was presumed mutilated by orcs. Here instead Thranduil’s scouts recovered it, and he had him interred beneath Emyn Duir/the Mountains of Mirkwood after he could not find the Ring on his person. Thranduil’s ensuing panic that the orcs had taken it left him too distracted with protecting his realm to bother to inform anyone of the kingdoms of men of their king’s body’s fate, oops.
> 
> Did you know that Tauriel's actress agreed to the part only on the condition that there wouldn't be a love triangle? They ended up adding one anyway, after she'd filmed too much of her part to back out.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely anxiouscrab & Lumenne, who are honestly wonderful and I could not ask for better pals OR betas!!

**_TA2912 (1312 Shire Reckoning), March 17th_ **

_With a quick flash of movement, Bilba slid from her seat upon the armchair to dart to the crackling hearth, where her mother’s kettle had just begun to shriek and whistle it’s keen song. “Don’t stop on my account!” She called over her shoulder as she hooked the edge of the chimney crane to swing the kettle out of the flames. With her hand wound in the thick shielding shielding fabric that hung from the mantle for just that purpose, she smoothly pulled the idleback to upend the pot, spilling the steaming and heavily aromatic tea in one, two, five mugs—two of which were twice the size of the rest, though all were thick and meant to be held between chilled hands, rather than set daintily upon saucers. With a quiet creak of metal she swung the pot back just enough that it would remain warm, and scooped up from where she’d sat them two of the smaller mugs._

_“Why’d you stop?” She frowned dramatically, nose scrunching in displeasure at the Man who sprawled along the full length of a high padded bench that had been dragged into one of the room’s corners. “Here Ma, Da…” She pressed the smaller mugs into Belladonna’s hands (and frowned to see Bungo’s were still shaking quite a bit too hard to grasp his) before turning back to fetch the larger two. Normally guests would always be served first, but seeing as Bungo was still quite ill from his misadventure the month prior, taking chill with a dreadful ease, Bilba was unbothered by the slight. The hot tea would do him good, she hoped. “My apologies, Little Miss Baggins, it was only that I knew you wouldn’t want to miss any of the tale,” the Man at last replied, clear mirth in his rumbling voice as he extended a hand for one of the mugs._

_With an almost comic huff Bilba ducked away from his grasp, sidling in a wide arc to offer up the tea to his companion—another ranger—first, who took it with an amused chuckle, and raised it to her as she passed. “I don’t use my ears to pour a kettle, do I, Arathorn?” She whirled about to face the dark-haired fellow, raising one brow sharply before at last smiling and handing him his own cup of the potent tea. He smiled as he took it from her, and without waiting for any sugar took to it (which was a small mercy, as even now with the thaw at last underway, there was not a cube of it to be found west of The River). Very probably he and his companion were used to brews both weaker and stouter, and neither seemed to mind the herbal taste, for all that it was warm, and came with shelter and good company._

_Arathorn, seeming quite at ease upon his bench, just shrugged a shoulder and took another pull of the still-steaming brew. “Tale-telling is thirsty work, Little Miss Baggins. But now you’ve got your cup,” And she’d just plucked it up, and settled herself back into the spare armchair indeed, “I suppose we can continue.” The man took a moment to find where he’d left off in his story of all the things he’d seen upon his travels, and Bilba, assuaged, gave into the urge to listen and be lost to her imagination._

* * *

_The rangers had been the saviors of the Shire, in the end, for though many had been lost to the bite of cold and wolf alike, many more would have been done for lack of food as the horrid Fell Winter lingered long over those lands. From the north the men had come, first driving off the foul things that crept from smial to smial, and then to bring supplies to the pale and wasting hobbits. Sacks of grain and well-dried roots, salted meats and beans, and tough, coarse bread by the loaf. It was not the finest of fare, but to the half-starved populace it seemed a feast, and by the actions of the watchers, the little folk began to recover._

_Some of the rangers had agreed to stay on and be hosted by the hobbits, to be sure that their lands remained safe until things were properly back in order. It would be some time before the remaining populace were back up to form—though what constituted being ‘fighting fit’ among hobbits was another matter of debate—and though they were usually quite wary of outsiders and tall folk, in this case the men of the wilds were welcomed into almost any smial without a word of complaint._

_When Bilba’d recognized one among them there’d been little question as to if the Bagginses would be playing host. Many among the neighborhood thought it a bit odd, but at the same time found themselves quite thankful to have protection near at hand, and yet not under their own roofs. For the Baggins family however, it was a reunion long in the making. Arathorn had visited only once before, since that summer where he had intercepted a little wayward faunt as she roved away from home, and the family was keen to catch up with him. It’d been little trouble too to have along his companion, who said almost nothing but seemed kindly enough (if a bit twitchy) and had posted up without complaint on one side of the sitting room. It was to their dismay that they could not offer their guests proper hobbitish meals—for even with the supplies the rangers had brought, they would be going on only three meals a day until at least some crops could be grown and harvested—but the strange tallfolk seemed content with even that (though Bilba had overheard Arathron quietly bemoaning a lack of tarts to his brother in arms one evening)._

_Barely a week later the ice and snow’s hold upon the land seemed to break overnight, and at last lush green shoots began to erupt from every corner of the region. Of course, even then there were troubles. The rangers had all but set to depart back to the east and north, and Bilba had been sad to see her friend leave, when news of terrible flooding along the streams and rivers of the region came. The roads were all but washed out in many places, and even so far east as the Gwathló was little more than a soggy, bone-chilling mess. None could safely pass the Brandywine until the floods abated, and so those rangers still in the Shire were given little choice but to wait._

_The Bagginses, of course, were not displeased by this, and when Arathron offered to assist them in tending to their home (for many of the rooms needed opening and dusting, and furniture moved back into place, and fences and the outside of the front door replaced) Belladonna quickly took him up on it. Bungo had taken a mighty chill after his daring rescue of the Bolgers down the lane, and was still on the mend, and the list of tasks were rather daunting for Bilba and her mother alone to tackle. The larger, stronger tall folk made quick enough work of all that needed doing, and they spent the better part of most days either roving the hills of Hobbiton thereafter, or else entertaining Bilba with tale after tale of the wide and wondrous world she so desired to see._

_“And so, the elves they say spoke magic into the trees, and woke them to the world. They taught them to move and to speak, though to do either was a slow and laborious effort for them. But those trees are not Ents, of course, and grew quite wild and fearsome in the Ages since without any there to mind them. The axes of men and dwarves felled many of their kind, and they grew angry and twisted, and began to think of ways to defend themselves. Many too of their kind were lost in the great fires that were set by—… during the wars of those long-ago days, and their number dwindled still. I am sure to your eyes, Little Miss, the Old Forest seems great and tall, but in those days it is said the trees spread as wide and vast as the sea, and now only a little remains._

_And so, I’m sure you can understand, it is dangerous to wander there. Trees such as those within that forest move of their own accord, and without the touch of wind. They creak and groan, and their leaves rustle like tongues to speak, and mislead unwitting travelers. If you do not know the path and keep it well, you could become quite lost, and be never seen again. Stolen away by the Huorns, especially should you enter the wood from near the High Hay—I do not think the trees there have forgotten the burning of their kin in the bonfires near there, and even I would not tarry lightly there. No, for all that you may ever wish to go there, I would not advise it. Such fates as those befalling trespassers there I would not wish upon any of your good people, and you least of all, Little Miss.”_

_Across the room Bungo gave a groan and leaned against Bilba with a sigh. “Our Bilba would, would never, never go there, Mister Arathorn,” he wheezed, and Bilba secretly wondered if his paleness was wholly from his health and not from fear. For all that she respected the ranger’s warning, she was more fascinated than afraid of the thought of that deep and dark wood. Still, she nodded in agreement, not wanting to further upset her Da._

_“How about another story then—something happier, maybe?” She offered, turning back to Arathorn where he reclined upon the seat. “We’ve time yet before starting dinner. Maybe something about elves?” That seemed a preferable topic, and Bungo sunk down into the blanket wound about him with a few last grumbles. And before Arathorn had spun more than the start of another fable, the hobbit’s slumbering snores rose to fill the sitting room from wall to wall._  

* * *

**_TA2941, July 22nd_ **

Each trotting pony’s step brought the Company closer to the shadowy eaves of the vast wall of the forest before them, and as they went, the steady sound of wind in the tall wild grasses slowly blended into a thicker rustle of millions upon millions of leaves overhead. The sun was high when they reached the wood’s edge, and reined up to stop in the last of the open sunlight ere it crossed into the dappled half-gloom beneath the branches of Mirkwood. So it had that place been called by the men who skirted ‘round it and made their livings at its borders in the centuries past—and indeed Bilba could see why, for the murky depths between the gaps of the trunks were dark indeed, though it was rather less frightening at a glance than she’d been led to believe by the Company.

At Gandalf’s bidding they slid from the backs of their mounts and turned them loose, their many packs slung up onto their shoulders and tied hanging from their belts. The heavy weight of them would be lost before they missed it, for Beorn had warned them fiercely to take care in any hunting or foraging within the woods; that though most of what could be gathered there was edible, it could also be hard to find, and some plants that seemed fair were in fact _foul,_ and poisonous, and they were safer keeping to their own supplies when they were unsure of what they’d discovered.

A small but decrepit plaza of pale stone marked the point they were to enter the forest, and wound away between the trees in a path of cobble and dirt. Strange twisted formations of wood flanked the entryway and ringed the space, reaching upwards like twining antlers full of flowing curves, and were well-laced through with strands of dried and withered vines. There was an intensity about them as much as elegance—a warning as well as an invitation, and Bilba recalled the bear-man’s cautions about the temperaments of the Wood-elves they might meet along the way. Still she had to admit to herself as she dared, one foot and then the other beneath the curve of the gateposts, that there was something appealing about the structures as they were: powerfully graceful in their untamed strength, though dimmed with the sorrow of neglect.

The dwarves of course did not share her opinions, and she could make out their grumbles of displeasure at the look of the path ahead, and the darkness hanging over it. “Is there no other way around?” groused Glóin, who seemed rather like he had been chewing a lemon at the sight of the place. Of course, they had poured over what maps were available while at Beorn’s hut, and sought the council of Gandalf and their host, and they all of them knew very well that there were no other options—or at least, none that would see them timely to the mountain. Glóin’s questioning drew murmurs of agreement though, as none among the party seemed to delight in the road they must take, and were all milling about on the open field rather than getting on with it.

“The _way’s_ just there, Glóin,” Bilba called back to him from where she stood, one hand idly (and lightly, for her hands still smarted beneath their wrappings) tracing the rim of the plinth at the center of the plaza, and wondering if it had been some fountain or pool long ago. “It doesn’t look too bad, I don’t think. We’ll have an easy walk if it stays as clear as it is, and see?” She smiled at the ginger dwarf as he reluctantly drew up alongside her. “Once your eyes adjust away from the sunlight it’s not so bad. Why, I’d have thought you dwarves had far _better_ sight in the gloom than us hobbits, though I suppose—”

He cut her off with a spluttering rumble, and she had to swallow a chuckle as without any more complaint (beyond those at the foolishness of hobbits) he stomped ahead, quite determined to prove his mettle as well as his ‘hawk-like’ eyesight. The rest of the Company was quick to follow suit, and they clomped and tramped along in Gandalf’s wake as he first overtook Glóin and then descended onto the trail down from the little stone court and between the thick tree trunks. As the branches closed in overhead, and a dimness came creeping in with them, what sound of birds and wind there had been seemed to drop away, replaced by only low and distant moaning creaks, and the constant murmur of the leaves moving overhead. It was clear that the elven road had not been seen nor tended to by its makers in some many years, for all that it seemed fit enough for use—at least by Gandalf’s word—but they had no other choice, no nearer track to take, and as stopping was not an option, that left only to move ahead on it.

Once the Company had passed her, Bilba gave herself a final pat-down before they left all sight and the light of the open plains behind—waterskin, sword, ring… Ah. That’s right. She’d nearly forgotten she had it, in all the fuss. Her hand froze over her pocket, fingers pressing to where it sat. Her precious little ring… she could feel it, the perfect shape of it through the fabric of her vest… The sound of a snapping branch ahead ripped her from whatever daydream she’d wandered off into, and she shook her head and quickly made sure that her pocket was buttoned shut tight before she slipped her hand upwards to card through her hair, to brush her fingers comfortingly over the golden leaves of her hairpin there. She tugged it gently once, twice, and then satisfied that it would not fall lose or come undone at the yank of a wayward twig, hurried on to catch up with the rest.

Around the bend Gandalf had drawn up before a strange towering tangle of vines, though that was not what appeared to have stopped him. On the twisted tip of his staff perched a bird, and the Company looked on in curiosity as it seemed to speak to him, twittering and chirping in his ear. Whatever it said must have been grave indeed, for barely had it finished its singing when the wizard whirled about, and sent it wheeling away over the canopy. He came charging back up the path, startling the dwarves to scatter to either side of him with curses and grumbles of surprise and alarm, and only slowed his haste when Thorin—who had been lingering near the rear of the group, perhaps from his displeasure to be entering the elven realm—threw his hands up to waylay the wizard. “What is the meaning of this?” Thorin demanded. “Have you come upon another way, or is it that you mean to _leave_ us here alone?” The would-be-king barked his questions up at the wizard, his voice deep with rumbling displeasure.

“The latter,” came Gandalf’s blunt reply, and already he was striving to duck around the obstructing dwarf. “I’ve pressing business away south, and I’ve dawdled longer than I ought with you already.” That of course set all the dwarves to spitting like cats that’d had their tails trod upon, clamoring for more of an explanation than the wizard seemed likely to give, not even when Bilba too came to his side and his wizened eyes found her questioning blue ones. Only a moment more did he linger, saying, “The hour is later than I had thought, and if there is time, I will find you again before you reach the mountain.” One of his old and wizened hands found Thorin’s shoulder, and the other Bilba’s, his staff leaned in the crook of his shoulder for the moment. “Keep to the path, and you will be fine. Mind you keep the map and key safe, and do _not_ enter that mountain without me.”

To Thorin directly he added, “Whatever you do, I repeat, _do not leave the path_. There is a strange magic upon this forest, and it will seek to ensnare you, lead you astray. Should you leave the road, you will never find it again…” And Thorin grumbled at that, and with a cold glare shook free of the wizard’s grip, stomping up to mingle with his fellows, and he cast no more glances back at Gandalf.

The wizard watched him go without further comment, and then shifted to regard Bilba. For her he had only a smile, small and enigmatic, and no words of warning but these: “Keep your eye on them, Bilba. _Both_ eyes, if you can spare them.” And then he was gone, in a whirl of his robes, heading back out from under the eaves and hoisting himself up onto his horse, which had by chance or fate lingered where it had been left. “ _Stay on the path_!” He called out once more before he wheeled his mount about and put it to flight, racing south across the plain in utmost hurry and leaving them all gaping after him, and very much alone upon the track.

“I suppose that’s that, then,” Bilba sighed to herself as the wizard faded out of sight. _It must be important, whatever it is that’s drawn his attention. Still, I would rather he have come along—I don’t much fancy trying to herd the lot of them through here with all the complaining they’re apt to do._ As she moved up to join the Company, who were all indeed squabbling and arguing where they’d been left, she couldn’t help but wonder if part of why the wizard had left was only because he too did not care for their quibbling, and had had the sense to get away from it while such getting was good. _He always has been quite uncanny at being able to avoid trouble, or to appear just in time to create it, the old sneak._

But such wonderings did nothing for their progress, and before much longer she heard Thorin calling for them to move. In ones and twos they filed along the path; in good tempers or ill, they all moved to their leader’s bidding, and grumbled down the line. A few glanced up as they passed the strange pillar of vines, and spoke quietly of curses and witches and dark elf magics, and other such mysterious things before they sped along away from the shadow it cast. Bilba too looked up in passing by, and felt a thrill of shock to see a fair maiden’s face gazing sadly back at her from within the clinging plants. A face of stone and sorrow, hooded and veiled in rock as well as leaf; seemingly forgotten here beside the road it was, and she found herself strangely moved to look upon it. For all that it was wrapped up to its crown in the vines, they had not cracked or warped it, and time had only just begun its slow wearing down of the features of the statue’s fair face.

“Hob—… Bilba!” Thorin’s voice boomed down the path into her ears, drawing her attention from the monument. “Catch up, or be left behind!” It was a half-threat at best, she knew, but still she found herself turning from her spot to hasten after the group. As she reached the dwarf leader’s side he waved her on, falling in step beside her and speeding them towards the Company. “You’ll see finer stonework than _that_ upon the very doorstep of Erebor, Miss Baggins. Such elvish stuff is not worth the time to look at, even when it’s been maintained—trust an elf to show such lack of care,” he finished with a snort. Though Bilba kept his pace and nodded absently in quiet non-committal agreement, she found her feelings differed quite well upon that point. To her the forgotten statue had seemed quite sad, like one neglected only for the pain that looking upon it had caused to those who had planted it there, and not out of any malice or lack of thought.

As they caught up to the throng and fell in among them, Thorin returning to the front and herself snagged between his sister-sons who’d already set to jabbering, she could not help but wonder who it was that had been so loved as to be set in stone before the very entrance of the forest, and whose loss had been so grievous as to have been then put from the minds of any who would tend to her memorial.

* * *

As they passed from Mirkwood’s edges towards the deeper heart of the forest, the days and nights began to blend, and only a vague swelling and lessening of the light could mark the passing of time when the thick tree branches blocked out the greater part of the sun and moon above. Rich cloying scents hung in the air, until the space between the trunks seemed as heavy as a mist, and it hazed the steps and minds of the Company and made them terse and full of mirth by turns. What supplies they had brought lasted the fourteen well along the way, at least until the fumes began to muddle them. Then in high spirits were they inclined to feast, for all that Bilba did her best to stop them—and that thought made her giddier than any vapor (for those of the forest itself seemed only sweet to her, and not as sickly confounding as to the dwarves), to think that a _hobbit_ of all creatures would be telling _anyone_ to forgo a meal!

Each morning following the evenings when they feasted, the dwarves all kept their heads the better for their full bellies, and in remorse for their indulgences would seek to hunt or scavenge for food. What few creatures they found were dark and swift, and warier (or perhaps cleverer) than those of the sunlit plains and brighter glades, and their efforts bore little fruit, and bitter it was when roasted over what fires they dared. Water too they had in plenty at the start, though the pools and streams they passed seemed foul in scent, and they could not refill their flask and skins from them. Thankfully they seemed less enticed to drink by those lurking mists than they were to eating, and Bilba was happier for not having to ward them off that supply as well.

The moods of all the dwarves began to sour as well as they pressed on and on, deeper into the forest. Tempers frayed, and they seemed to grow forgetful, slow to mind themselves and their way. Thankfully Thorin seemed more content to be led than to lead in such a state—and never mind his usual lack of directional sense—and though he grumbled all the louder about it, Bilba took it for the blessing that it was. Grumbling she could tolerate, but Bilba did _not_ want to have to repeat any part of this trek just because the would-be-king had gotten them turned around on the same path, _twice_ , somehow. She did not mind being at the front of the group herself; though she could hear and see the strange woodland creatures moving in the brush, none of them seemed dire, and there was no worry of getting lost when all one had to do was stay on the already-laid-out track. Keeping the Company in line and moving was the harder task by far, and she fell back on what skills she had to draw them along in her wake. A song or two had worked before, for Shire faunts and Gollum too, and why not on the dwarves as well? And to her secret self she admitted that it was a fine thing, when you were working on a new song, to have a quite literal captive audience to sing it to.

 _Upon the hearth the fire is red,_  
_Beneath the roof there is a bed;_  
_But not yet weary are our feet,_  
_Still round the corner we may meet_  
_A sudden tree or standing stone  
That none have seen but we alone._

 _Tree and flower and leaf and grass,_  
_Let them pass! Let them pass!_  
_Hill and water under sky,  
Pass them by! Pass them by!_

 _Still round the corner there may wait_  
_A new road or a secret gate,_  
_And though we pass them by today,_  
_Tomorrow we may come this way_  
_And take the hidden paths that run  
Towards the Moon or to the Sun._

 _Apple, thorn, and nut and sloe,_  
_Let them go! Let them go!_  
_Sand and stone and pool and dell,  
Fare you well! Fare you well!_

She was rather pleased with the starting of the song, though there was something wistful about it, and she had not quite done enough to finish it nor would sing the end of it until she felt sure of how it went. At least it did to entertain the dwarves though, and kept them mostly quiet by its tune as she led them on towards their goal. Songs and riddles, and she could almost pretend they were out for little more than a picnic stroll; for all the the forest was dark and looming, nothing had yet tried to attack them, and Bilba could not but help feeling relieved that the Company went unbothered and unmolested for at least a little while. 

* * *

On and on, day in and day out, for what seemed to be weeks she led them through the murk, until at last they came upon the curve of a rushing river. It was swift and dark in its deepness, but it seemed not so far a distance to the opposite bank, and what Bilba could see of the other side looked not quite as dreary as where they’d been. Less grim and more golden, through the trees remained as thick and tangled as they had seen before. The remnants of a bridge, now long collapsed into the water, jutted from the path in slivers and would be of little use. A boat there was, however; tied to the far bank, and it took Fili three tries to toss a rope across to hook it, and Dori’s strength to pull it free from its tether and send it scooting over the rapids back to them. It had no paddle with it, but a quick thought from Kili set them right: the rope was lashed to an arrow, and fired over the stream to lodge in a tree on the far side, allowing the dwarves to haul the boat across on the line.

Now thankfully the miasma of the forest had only dulled, and not deadened the minds of the dwarves, and mostly touched upon their moods and their sense of direction and fullness and not much else. If they _had_ been fully struck by the fungal scents and poisons, the trips back and forth across the river would have been far more perilous indeed. Thankfully the air seemed cleaner and less enchantingly fragrant near the water, and the dwarves began to come fully to their senses once they crossed in twos and threes to the far bank. There in the dappled light (and what a blessing _that_ was, for all that the canopy closed in again not ten yards from the river) they looked around, and found that the woods suddenly appeared rather more like most forests they had experience with, and not the dark and dank place they’d wandered in before.

As the first across milled about and waited for the last to follow, they noted as well the abundant life on this side of the stream: vibrant green and golden leaves, curling fronds of ferns and vines, faint strains of birdsong—and there beside the path, a bush full to bursting with plump purple berries, which were sweet and tart to taste, and a welcome treat for those that picked them. Chief among them to indulge was Kili, who quickly stained his hands and mouth with them, but seemed to suffer no ill for it, and soon all those on the far bank were feasting about the shrub, and paying little mind to those still crossing the river.

More the pity that was, for as the last of them came over—Bilba, and Bombur with her, for the dwarf was too heavy to fit with any of the others—the arrow at last dislodged from where it’d stuck, and the line went slack in their hands as the boat began to drift along with the current.

“Help! Help!” Bilba cried to the Company where they stood, with their backs turned and their hands in the bush. As quick as lightning she spooled in the slack rope, and the arrow with it, her usually-nimble fingers fumbling to undo the sturdy knots Kili had tied it with. “Bofur! Bifur! The boat!” Even usually-quiet Bombur was hollering now, and waving his arms over his head to catch his relatives’ eyes as the boat began to gather speed, pulling them further and further towards a bend in the dark water. Bofur’s cry was followed by the roaring of all the rest as they saw their friends’ peril, and the Company leapt into the forest after them, chasing the boat as it sped along the stream and leaving the path (and their packs, which had been set down for a rest as they waited) now utterly behind them in the process.

* * *

“It can’t be much further now, I’m sure of it.” Bilba’s stomach gave a mighty growl, undercutting her words and leaving her flinching at the gnawing, empty feeling there. It was well past a week since their misadventure with the boat, and while that had ended on a better note than she had hoped, things were quite dire indeed. In a bit of tricky luck, Bilba’d had the thought to tie the rope around the handle of one of the jugs of honey Beorn had given them, and had still been in her pack, and tossed it across from the boat to the riverbank. It had shattered on the ground, but the weight of it had gotten the rope across, and the Company had all leapt upon it before it could snake away in their wake. The boat had been hauled to shore, though Bombur had nearly been yanked into the water in the process, and they had been reunited without so much as a scratch.

Still, their joy had turned to ash when they looked around and realized that they were utterly lost, and no sight nor sign of the path or which way they’d come from was to be seen. The clear thing was to simply follow the river back towards the road, but a full day’s walking left them just as forlorn as they had been before, and just as lost. Murmurs of dark magic and elvish tricks were on the most of the Company’s tongues that night, and with only some quarter of the rations they’d had before (those from Bombur and Bilba’s packs, of course, as well as those of Ori and Balin, who’d had the sense to keep them on their backs), there was not even a meager dinner to quiet them. It seemed that the dwarves were quite right in their assessment too, as morning’s faint light revealed their camp to be on a cropping of stone, a cliff’s edge they had nearly wandered over the night before, and nothing they recognized about them.

With no landmark to go by but the faint light through the trees, they made a guess at their heading, and set off at as fast a pace as could be mustered. The forest here at least was brighter, and less fearful, though there was still a sense of watchful menace about it, and though food could be found there was little enough of it, and water as well, to worry them and give desperate speed to their feet. Each day they walked until they dropped, and ate but little at morning and as they sat down for the night, and even then the stores they had dwindled faster and faster. Thankfully their appetites were not so great now that they were not entranced by the forest’s spells, but that was only a small relief, and when at last they were forced to forgo all but one meal a day (and that one was frightfully small as well) it did none of them much good to think back on all the cream and honey and soft warm bread they’d eaten in the days before, the berries and nuts and jams and seeds Beorn had given them, and were now left sitting beside the road somewhere.

At no point did their destination seem any closer, for all their hard effort, and they began to despair of ever leaving that forest alive, or seeing their mountain home, Erebor, again even from a distance. The days grew shorter in bits and pieces, though what light there was to see by made it hard to tell for certain, and a crispness came upon the air that warned of distant snow and ice to come. Their path was made the softer by the first of the falling leaves, but it served only to set an alarm within their hearts, for theirs was in inflexible deadline, and not one to be missed at all if possible.

Even Bilba, who had done her best to once more lift their hearts with songs and stories, felt herself begin to wilt, to crumble beneath the weight of their task, and a dreadful sort of weariness. This half of the forest was lighter, that was true, and when she could she found herself inclined to taking paths that let her move through beams of sunlight. At night as well she would curl herself down upon the forest floor, one hand idly clutching to the ring within her pocket, and if she could she would turn her face to any gap in the branches that gave her sight of the stars. The light of them, glittering warm and blue overhead, seemed to restore her somewhat, and the days following such nights she always felt more at ease, and able to walk longer, and encourage the dwarves better.

So when the thought to send one of them up into a tall tree to have a look around came, she was the obvious choice. Besides being the lightest of them all and nimblest, she also had more spirit and less sorrow about her by then, and though as a hobbit she ought to have felt their lack of food the keenest, she found herself less troubled by it than seemed to be some of the dwarves, and her energy outmatched theirs as well, though even it was flagging over so many long and arduous days. The Company’s luck to have the only hobbit in all of Middle Earth who did not mind the heights (and her thoughts went often back to that ride on eagle-back as she hauled herself up from branch to branch) was well, and up and up she went. Thankfully too her hands had healed in their long passage through the forest, at least enough that the task was not made any more arduous for their tenderness, and she made quick work of the ascent, at last shoving herself up through the thick layer of leaves to find—

“Oh…! Oh heavens…” To be caught in the full light of the setting sun after so long with only glimpses and glances was quite a blinding thing, and Bilba threw up an arm to hide her face for some long moments full of blinking. All around her gusted the air, and it was sweet and scented, though only of good things, and nothing of the fetid reek of the western half of the woods was on it. When at last she found her eyes adjusted enough to see, she was struck by the sight around her, and for many more minutes simply gaped in wonder.

Overhead the sky was streaked and bubbled with clouds, all painted in reds and oranges, pinks and purples, and dashes of deep absorbing blue shone between them and gave her the sensation of being pulled, drawn upward, as if there was a great lake above, shining in the light of the setting sun, and if she leaned just a bit further forward she could go tumbling end over end up into it. The canopy’s spread went in all directions, a carpet, a sea of rustling leaves in all their new and turning autumn splendor, made all the warmer as to look nearly ablaze by that same gloaming light. The breeze moved them like the tide, rising and falling in waves that for a moment made her fear to drown in them before their beauty settled upon her.

And dancing on the air between the sky and trees were hundreds upon hundreds of butterflies. All dark and velvety black they were; small patches of midnight that had been ripped free from between the stars to sport on the evening’s last rays, and hover here and there. The sight of them entranced the hobbit, who spent some long minutes gazing at them, and did not struggle to hold back her tears when they came wet and warm for the beauty and relief of that moment there above the treetops at the sight of the first stars piercing through the purpled haze of dusk.

She passed a hand over her face to dry them with the heel of her palm, then swept her fingers through her hair, clearing her throat and her mind, and recalling the task she’d been sent to do. Her fingers idly played upon the metal twisted into her curls as she turned about on her perch, and grinned to find the last rays of the settling sun painting the side of a distant but now-familiar mountain in shades of red. There at its base she could see open plains, and further from it the glitter of a lake, and small flecks of molten gold lit upon its surface from one side—lamps and fires being kindled, and she recognized the place from the Company’s tales of what remained of the cities of men within that region, for it was Esgaroth, the Lake-town. The edge of the forest was not at all as far as they had feared, and though it would still be difficult, Bilba at last felt sure that they would make it out, and not die there, forgotten in the dark.

Though she was loathe to abandon the view just as all the stars came creeping out, she’d left the Company waiting for far too long already, and feeling still too full of wonder to feel sheepish, she called down to them as she began her descent. “I can see the mountain! And Long Lake! It’s not more than another week’s walk, maybe, to the edge of the forest; I think we’ll make it if we keep heading straight!” The way down was quicker than the way up, but still it took her some time to work her way back to the forest floor. She was so focused on her climbing, and rattling on and on about what all she’d seen, she did not notice that no voices called back up to her in response. Only when her furred feet hit the ground, and she turned around to see that she was quite alone did she realize that something was very, _very_ wrong.

“Thorin? Fili? Kili?” No answer. “Balin? Dwalin!” She circled the tree, pace picking up faster and faster as she found no one. “Ori, Dori? Nori, this isn’t funny!” She cried out to them all, and stared into the growing gloom as if she could will her eyes to catch some sign of movement, or shade of a boot print on the ground. “Bifur, Bofur? Bombur? Where did you go? Glóin? Anybody!” A cracking branch behind her made her whirl about, and with her heart in her throat and a hand on her sword’s hilt, she slunk towards the brush. “Óin? I know you can hear without that bloody trumpet when you like to, now this isn’t funny, so please—!” Her scolding whimper cut off in a squeal of fright as from the brush leapt not one of her companions, but an utterly monstrous spider, black as night, and hairy, with pale luminous eyes all fixed upon her, and malice and venom dripping from its fangs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A [chimney crane](http://www.rumford.com/images/Ferringercrane38.jpg), or a pot crane, is a swiveling hook system used to hold a pot or kettle over a fire.  
> An [idleback](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/53/6a/58/536a581d612080b877fbe28f167e4c37.gif), or a lazyback as it's sometimes called, is a long handle of metal that is attached between the chimney crane and the kettle, which allows it to be poured without taking the kettle off the hook or away from the heat of the fire.
> 
> The song Bilba sings before they reach the river is the first bit of “A Walking Song”, which Bilbo does write in the books. Frodo, Pippin, and Sam sing it in the book Fellowship of the Ring, and the latter verse (not included here) is what is known as “The Edge of Night”, which Pippin sings for Denethor in the Return of the King movie.
> 
> The movie of course entirely left out the enchanted river, and added in the bit where the forest’s magic bewitched the dwarves. I tried to go down the middle, because I like both features. The ‘toxic’ area of the forest is roughly what’s west of the rivers that run through it, and everything south of the Mountains of Mirkwood.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely anxiouscrab & Lumenne, who are honestly wonderful and I could not ask for better pals OR betas!!

**_TA2770_ **

_The Woodland Realm’s scouts did not need to see the smoke of distant burning pines to know what was coming, for there numbered still among them some of those that had seen for themselves the fury of the serpents of the north in years long past, and could still recall the sound of their wide and wicked wings upon the winds. Even as far as the edge of Mirkwood the elves’ sharp ears could hear the storm of it, and with all the haste their fleet-footed forms held had sped to cry a warning to their king; or else stood against the woodland edge’s boles and at the ready, with eyes wide and arrows drawn should the beast veer too far towards their home._

_By the time the dragon’s fire lit the side of the Lonely Mountain with its red and orange glow their ranks had formed up, brave warriors arrayed beneath the eaves of the trees in numbers, where they stood all through the night and the coming dawn in watchful waiting—and through that day, and the next, and then one more, never wavering in their easternly vigil. At the heart of the ready lines of them, clad all in armor and his own golden cloak of leaves, sat their king, and his watch was the greatest of them all, and terrible in its black desperation._

_At long last when the flashes of light over the hills died to darkness, and only lingering plumes and clouds of smoke were left to drift upwards and upon the chill wind did Thranduil dare to hope that death and ruin was not about to fall upon his people once more. Still, though he bade many of their number depart and return to their halls and homes and families who had been left worrying, he remained there at the edge of his realm, and did not give up his watchful guardianship until even those distant signs of destruction faded to the touch of time, and rain. Even then, as the last of his archers and swift spear-throwers stepped back to vanish between the leaves, he remained: poised upon his great horned stag, staring both towards the mountain and back through time, and his mind turned upon the thought of all the horrors wrought of the dark flames of serpents’ mouths over the Ages._

_News of the dragon’s destruction of the cities of man and dwarf spread quickly even to their reclusive wood, and in its wake came refugees. From Dale and from Erebor both they came: trains of children, women, men on foot, with all they could carry or had saved within their arms or upon their backs, or strapped to what horses and beasts of burden had survived. Many of those fleeing carried very little, or only odds and ends, for there had been no time to have their pick of keepsakes or supplies. Many as well among them were wounded, covered in burns and lacerations, though those were all from falls or stumbles or burning buildings, or their own clumsiness in flight—for none who had the misfortune to meet the dragon’s claws or teeth directly had lived to tell of it, which was both a kindness and a great grief, and the voices of the people as they mourned the fallen and the lost echoed for long beneath the great trees._

_The elves of course were keen to aid the menfolk, and doled out much of their food and medicine to them, tending to their wounds and healing bodies and spirits where they might. Though Thranduil forbade to invite any of them into his halls, and would rather see them along their ways to Rohan, or to Gondor, or wither their paths might take them, he was not unkind to those of the race of men who had been victim more than any others to the dragon the dwarves’ greed had summoned. Still, he did not urge them to tarry long while within his realm—it was unlikely that the dragon would stir from its roost now that it had routed those who guarded the vast hoard of Thrór, but still Thranduil lingered in his memories and the fear and fury they wrapped about his heart, and he would not risk the fire-drake’s wrath falling upon his people’s heads for sheltering the dragon’s prey. So no, the men were not at fault for the greed that had drawn the beast, and he strove when he might to ease the pains they suffered, but still he and his people would not keep them, and soon he sent them from his lands._

_When the dwarves came upon the menfolk’s heels, however, he was not so keen to extend his hand in peace, nor to give his people’s aid to them. The dwarves were still wroth in their fury, and Thranduil could not help but despair to know that his warnings had gone unheeded, and now once more a dragon lingered on the edges of his lands. He was not, however, surprised to know of the dwarves’ haughty ignorance, their hubris in the face of wisdom—for Thrór had long been snared in the luster of his treasure, and many were the slights between the kings of elves and dwarves, and their stubbornness was widely known._

_It was not long before the ears of the elves began to ring with the muttered hopes and promises of the dwarves—few among the stout race spoke of any plans but those of returning to the mountain, of seeking revenge and fighting or dying for their home, and chief among them was Thrór, who came to Thranduil to half-request, half-demand his people’s assistance. It was to Thranduil’s ire that he was forced to refuse the request before those of Thrór’s people who had come with him seeking aid—for the Elvenking was made to seem cruel and callous by his refusal, though his reasons were his own—for the light of gold-sickness shone in the dwarven king’s eyes, and he knew that it was for that lust, and not for love of home or kin that Thrór would return them to his halls and the certain death that waited there for them._

_In his fury at the Elvenking’s denial, and still thirsting for naught but the golden glitter of his treasure, Thrór took what aid had been offered to his people in the forms of medicines and food and material goods, and threw it down before the throne of the Woodland Realm amidst his cursing. He departed then in rage to tell his kin, “No aid will come of the elves this day,” and roused a wrath and distrust within their hearts. At speed Thrór led his people south and west, away from Thranduil’s kingdom, and many were wroth indeed at the perceived slight. And in his own stubborn pride Thranduil sought only to let them leave, and did little to correct their misconceptions—for his thoughts had turned again to the slights of old that were done to his people by the hands of dwarves, as well as those newer debts owed to him specifically._

_As he watched the throneless dwarven king lead his people from the forest lands, he felt his heart, already cold, grow colder still, and turned then away from the suffering of Durin’s people._

* * *

**_TA2941, July 27th_ **

The party of elves hovered near the edge of the woods, making quick but watchful work of inspecting the tracks which the throng of orcs had left behind. There had been no attempt to hide their path, nor divert any who might hope to follow them, which was both typical of their brutish and basic natures as well as a source of worry—for Tauriel could not recall a time within her life when orcs had not rightly feared the forest and those they knew to dwell within it. “They move in the open, and at speed,” Legolas noted as he rose from where he had knelt and turned the leaf litter with his sure hands and keen eyes, the sharpest in all the realm it was said, having missed little indeed of those tracks there.

The group of elves had been following the trail of the orcs for several days, ever since they had departed from Thranduil’s halls. To their surprise the orcs, which had been seen lingering in a throng about one area for the weeks before, were gone upon their arrival. It would be little more than guessing to say if they had given up their hunt (or whatever reason they had to tarry overlong near Mirkwood) or found their quarry and given chase, and neither option seemed preferable. Their tracks had swarmed around the gateway to the Elven Path, but then had simply moved on to the south along the forest’s edge, and the elves had sped along in their wake, marking their passage and striving to catch up to them while yet remaining hidden from sight. “Still south, and they have been cautious not to penetrate too deeply into the wood.”

A rustle of leaves heralded one of their scouts’ return, and Legolas turned from his investigation to meet the eyes of the Silvan elf that had come to stand before himself and Tauriel. “My lord; Captain—the tracks veer to the east after another three miles.” The scout spoke quickly, nearly breathless, not from exertion but from concern. “They’ve cut right _through_ the woods… They’re heading for Dol Guldur, or near enough.”

“ _Am man theled_? What could drive them to forsake all fear of the forest?” It was a foul thing to wonder, but they had little time to spare for thought. As one they turned, and as if the very wind itself gusted to carry them took flight both south and east, back into the depths of the wood where they might move yet more swiftly and overtake the orcs before they reached their dark purpose.

* * *

Within little more than a week they found their quarry as it skulked south of the Old Road. In a bounding and wide arc the orcs had moved, skirting well outside all those areas where the Elvenking’s will had begun the work of casting back the shadow. Some of their number had been snared by the spiders as they went, and while it had made it easier for the elves to track them, and the orcs’ numbers the lesser for it, so too did it cost Legolas and Tauriel time—for they could not abide to leave the nests of spiders where they found them so freshly fed and invigorated, and they stopped to slay all they encountered as they went. It was something of a relief to find that there was no friendship between the orcs and the foul arachnids, and none among the elven party wanted to think on the damage their forces could do if they were united.

The elves found their quarry weakened and on foot, some twenty orcs left to tramp and hack their way through the tangled and infected old growth. Here the woods were so unkempt that any hope of stealth through them was lost—the orcs had used axe and sword to cut a path, which left them the easier to find as well as doomed to a greater fury of the elves for the loss of even those old and wretched trees. Swift arrows sped to find their marks in the throats and hearts of the band of fiends, and their shrieks and snarls filled the wood as they fell, left no time to even draw their weapons. The elves offered no mercy, and the bodies were swiftly rolled into small ditches and between the roots of the trees—in death they would feed the forest, and then be at least of that much use.

“Whatever their purpose was, it is undone now,” Legolas’ chin was tilted up in pride as his long legs bore him swiftly from the scene of carnage and at his companions’ sides. From at his shoulder Tauriel mused aloud, “I cannot help but wonder if we might have done better to leave one at least alive, to question or to trail to wherever it meant to go.”

“What do you think the orc filth would tell us? Very little, I think; lies and poison to blacken our ears and hearts.” The elf prince huffed a breath through his nose, a single puff of tepid amusement as the party of elves began their trek back through the woods towards the Elvenking’s halls. “They are dead now, and it matters little. Besides, my father would not be pleased for us to go there—and we have been gone longer than we meant to already. We should report back to him, and see where he would send us.” With that the prince plunged ahead, and all the party sped after him at a quick but easy loping pace. Three steps behind, Tauriel could not help but watch him go, her eyes fixed upon the center of his back and her lips curved upwards in the ghost of a smile—for it was not so very long ago at all that Legolas would have rather delayed from seeing his father as long as he could, and even when set to it would have been slow and hesitant in turning his feet for home. Now he raced ahead, with something more than duty pulling him along. It was a change for the better, she thought; some goodness to line the cloud of what doom had begun to rise against them in silver.

* * *

**_TA2941, August 29th_ **

Bilba could feel her arms trembling, both from the weight of her sword and from the shock of terror and adrenaline running through her blood. Her eyes were wide; her curls, already tangled here and there with leaves and twigs and other forest detritus, had come half unbound and hung in sprays and coils over her face and shoulders. Her wide blue eyes were fixed upon the horrid, monstrous spider, and flashed with a fearful fury when it lurched in movement. “Oh n-no you don’t…!” Her blade, already streaked with blackish ichor, flashed out, the tip stabbing into the chitinous flank of the creature, and it let loose a grating cry, legs twitching and curling inward as she sent it to a final shuddering stillness at her feet.

It had sprung at her from the shadows as she’s sought the Company, and only the luck of her reflexes (she would have to thank Dwalin for insisting she learn _something_ about using her sword, once she found him again of course) had saved her. It’d all but thrown itself onto her sword as she’d pulled it from her sheath, impaling itself before its fangs could sink into her, though they snapped and clacked mere inches from her face. Her own anger at the beast for attacking her had surprised her, and once the creature was down she had punched several more swift holes into its flank with the blade before she’d caught her breath enough to gather her wits. She was splattered in its ichor now, still shaking even though it was dead, and fighting down a sickening sensation that had begun to crawl and twist in the pit of her belly—for she could easily imagine what had become of the dwarves if such things had come upon them unawares, and in force.

The thought of the dwarves, her friends and companions, being dragged away, bitten, stung, _eaten_ …! She had no time to even clean her sword, and fumbled to thrust it back into her belt before she was off, swift but silent in the direction the spider had come from. She plunged through the edge of the brush, her head on a swivel and her sharp ears seeming to pick up and filter every faint and innocuous sound of the forest, looking for any sign of their passing, of a struggle, anything at all. _There’s got to be some sort of track… something, anything!_ Her eyes trailed over the trunks of the trees, the leaves, and along what bits of exposed dirt there were, darting here and there for any scuffs or bent stems. _I will NOT have lost them now, not when we’re this close!_

But there was nothing. Nothing! For all that she looked, it was as if the dwarves had simply never _been_ there. There wasn’t a single sign of a struggle; no dropped weapons nor shorn-off limbs of a spider, not even a single lost hair to prove any of them had existed at all. And with the sun already setting, and the forest growing darker, darker… what could she do? She fought the urge to snarl, to fling her sword into the brush in a fit of frustrated ire; there very well might be more spiders around, and if they heard her, if she were snared, she’d be no use at all, would she? No, they’d come dropping down from above right onto her head, and then she’d be nothing but a meal for—!

Bilba froze in her tracks, her long ears catching the faintest whisper of movement just as the thought came upon her, clicking into her head at last past the haze of her panic. _Up._

Slowly, ever so slowly she tilted her head back, her eyes sliding up, up along the bole of a great oak, past the first of its lower branches, through the leaves, to… _there_! She swallowed down her whoop of relief at the sight of several long and slender strings of webbing winding first around the tree and then off into the gloom, pale snatches of moonlight turning the barely-there filaments to lines of silver where they flitted through the rays. She would simply follow the webs to where they were wound the thickest! Perhaps, and she dared to hope it would be so, she would find the Company all wrapped up but no worse for wear. _Of course, Thorin will probably be even crankier than lately after this. But then again, with the mountain so near…_ They wouldn’t have far to go, no, not once she got them back! And surely that good news would help to appease them—because she _would_ find them, and _would_ save them, just wait and see!

* * *

The going was slow in the dark of night, but waiting had not been an option afforded to Bilba. She had no way to know how far the dwarves had been taken but she had seen the fangs and stinger on the spider that had assailed her in the glade beneath the tree she’d climbed, and did not like to imagine such weapons being put to use against her Company. Up into the oak she’d hauled herself, and crept silently along the winding branches that were like roads between it and its neighbors. The strands of webbing she’d tracked led her round and round, up, down, and back on themselves, but she was determined, and eventually found them growing thicker and more numerous, until what she could see of the forest around her was more of white than green or gold. The darkness seemed to grow thicker towards where the webs met as well, as if some unnatural cloud had formed to cover this part of the woods from even the light of the moon and stars—it was frighteningly ominous, but the distant sound of chitinous movement had caught her ears, and she could do nothing but continue forward. To go any other way was to condemn her companions, to forsake them and be unworthy of their friendship even if they managed to free themselves (and not to mention that she doubted she’d be able to live with herself after).

As she slunk around a thick wall of branches, pressed nearly to her belly upon one tree’s limb and going on her hands as well as her feet to steady herself, she spotted it. A large, web-wrapped, _wriggling_ cocoon, pale and slick in the faint light of a distant dawn hung from a crooked branch before her. She fumbled to a halt, tensing and immediately straining to hear any of the arachnid movement she’d been following. It was there, in the distance… but growing closer. Louder. She felt the hair along her neck rise as the sound split into two, then four, then enough separately-moving sources to be unable to guess how many there were, and the sound of them set her hands to shaking upon the bark, even as she lifted one to paw across her vest to find the pocket where her ring was hidden. _Fighting one alone is one thing but…!_ No, she’d be outmatched in a minute if they could see her.

Gritting her teeth in raw determination, Bilba slid her blade from its sheath and the ring onto her finger, feeling the same rush of energy and a strange brief pressure inside her skull that had come with donning it before, and then dropped silently to the branch that held the suspended cocoon. She swiftly set to sawing away at the strands that held it up, even as the spiders’ chittering—now sounding even clearer, and somehow like _words_ through the never-ending gale of the strange shadow world of the ring—grew closer and closer. “Such _meaty mouthfuls_ they will make, once they’ve swing a while! I say we let them ripen, and then peel them like freshly burst fruit…!”

Bilba’s heart was racing in her ears, but she felt her tired arms fill with new vigor and determination; her sword sheared through the webbing, and the wriggling cocoon spilled its contents (Balin, she noted with relief) thumping to the forest floor just in time—for a moment later the chittering became a hissing howl of fury. The spiders, and there were only two of them, though she could hear others not far off, scrambled and skittered down towards the still-stunned dwarf, the first of the passing just past Bilba as it went. With a wide swing Bilba was able to cleave the legs from one side of that one and send it tumbling, end over end, to writhe against the ground. The other wheeled upon its line, its many eyes searching for the foe it couldn’t see.

“Here, attercop! Up here, or can’t you even see the fly you’re trying to catch? Come on then, let’s see which of us has a proper sting,” she taunted it. Below it now she could see that Balin had found his feet—and what looked to be his mace, which had been wrapped into the cocoon with him. Though she knew he could not see her, she shot a determined grin his way as he brought his weapon slamming down onto the crippled spider—and then threw herself, blade-first, at the other arachnid.

* * *

**_TA2941, August 16th_ **

Thranduil frowned from his throne down at the guard, who to his credit stood resolute and unflinching in the face of his lord’s ire. Great were the troubles that hung over the Elvenking’s crowned head—the spiders and the burning eye he’d seen; the growing darkness from Dol Guldur; sightings of orcs, and no word from his son who had gone to rid their borders of them; and the insistent and beguiling pulse of that thread wound around his soul, risen from quietude to a consuming, demanding thing that was ever seeking to distract him. And now _this_? How much _more_ could the Valar heap upon his shoulders to be born in what grace he could yet muster?

“A company of _dwarves_ , you say?” His voice rang out, as soft as velvet wrapped around a dagger’s blade and showing none of the true depths of his displeasure. His right hand lingered at his breast, fingers idly tracing, kneading, pressing; an unconscious gesture he had found himself caught in doing more and more of late. His left sat balanced upon the pommel of his sword, his third finger dipping to card across the curves carved into the metal of the hilt. “How many, and by what path?” It was a wonder that they had come so far unseen, but that they had been overlooked at all displeased him greatly. If such bold and unsubtle creatures could foray into his forest, unencountered and with no recourse, what _else_ then might have come creeping and unseen towards his people’s sanctuary?

“Near to a dozen, my lord—they took the path from the Forest Gate, we think around the start of autumn. Their pace seemed slow, from the distance we found between their camps, but—”

Thranduil’s fingers flicked upwards to silence him, for behind and beyond the guard, upon the curving root-bridge that spanned the chasm of his hall he’d seen a flash of familiar blond hair, and he rose to stand before his seat as _at last_ his son returned to stand before him. Nearly unnoticed now, the soldier pivoted with a bow, standing contently aside to wait in patience to complete his report. Legolas spared him only a glance as he paused at the foot of the throne, habit of old keeping him from bounding up the stairs as he found he might wish to do, though a moment later his father’s beckoning gesture drew him up, and he nodded his head in mild deference as he joined Thranduil there. “Forgive my lateness, _adar_ ; I had thought to come to you with Tauriel, but she sent me on ahead as we drew close.”

Thranduil knew well the speed of his son’s fleet pace—and knew his tidings must be urgent, or at least not what they had expected, to merit the use of them. “You found the orcs, then? I did not think that they would keep you quite so long.” His words would once have seemed near to indifferent, almost cold, but Legolas saw how his eyes roved over him with keen interest, only flicking back to meet Legolas’ when he found no trace of wounds or wear upon him. “It is good to see they gave you no trouble.” A faint smile ghosted across Thranduil’s face, cooling his earlier ire as he reached out to lightly clasp his son’s upper arm. Legolas mirrored the gesture, a subtle warmth flowing between them before they released each other, and Thranduil folded his hands back into the sleeves of his robes.

“They’d moved on from where the scouts last sighted them—we tracked them down south of the Old Road and the mountains; they were making for the Narrows… and Dol Guldur.” The way the light faded from Thranduil’s eyes at the name of that dark place was a visible thing, as was the way he leaned just slightly back, his breath slowing as if in an attempt to grasp at a calm that was threatening to slip away. Legolas had never known his grandfather’s capital as anything other than a dark and crumbling spire of sorcery; he did not feel the loss of that place as keenly as his father did, but more of late than before he took note of how even mention of that realm pained his father. “We cut them down, those that the spiders did not take. Whatever foul ends bid them brave the forest, they’ll come to nothing now.” Whether Legolas sought his father’s approval or to see him comforted and that shade of darkness from long ago dispersed, he could not say, and instead the Elvenking only turned away, to perch once more upon his throne in deep contemplation.

At length Thranduil’s eyes fell upon the still-waiting guard, and the beginning of a thought sprang into his mind. “ _Tolo, govano ven_ ,” he called down to him, and the soldier moved to stand beside Legolas before the king. Thranduil regarded them both for some long moments, his mind turning and weighing what he had heard from them each. At length he met his son’s eyes, though his own were cast far away over leagues of thoughts and memories. “You say the orcs lingered near the Forest Gate for some time? And your scouts—” he flicked a glance to the guard, though the Silvan elf’s own gaze was fixed at his feet, near the base of his throne. “—They believe that our current _interlopers_ entered the forest at that same point, and took the path from there?”

Both nodded, and Legolas regarded the soldier now with more interest the soldier. “What interlopers are these you speak of? More orcs?” There was a fire in Legolas as he spoke, Thranduil noted; an eager hunger to see the end to foul things such as those on which they spoke. Such passion could be a great aid—or a hindrance, as it had been to Oropher, and Thranduil hesitated then in setting the task he had in mind before his child. He had wished as well to speak to Legolas before he left again of those things that had weighed upon his mind and heart, but what suspicions he had formed, once entertained would not so quickly be dismissed.

“No, though I do believe that it was the orcs that sought them.” There were few of Aulë’s race that he felt were of note enough to bid any orc to risk the wrath of the wood elves, and there were some—or one, really—in particular that Thranduil did not enjoy the implications of having been upon that forest road. “A company of _dwarves_ has come into the wood, and they seem to be dawdling upon the path as they travel east.”

“Dwarves?” Thranduil watched his son’s face pinch in distaste (there were few indeed among his people who had any real love for the burrowing race, though some simply seemed indifferent to them) and his brows lower in a scowl. “What purpose would _dwarves_ have in the forest?”

“Indeed—and to what end would an orc pack chase its prey? They usually are too _base_ to devote such effort, and too cowardly to risk so much.” Thranduil’s fingers laced before him, one finger idly turning the rings upon his other hand. “I would know _why_ , as well as the purpose for such an incursion upon our borders. _Ionneg,_ ” He was loathe to send his son away again so soon, but the boy _had_ been keen of late to serve his father’s will, and he knew the prince would feel more for his duty than for whatever purpose the dwarves had about them. “Return towards the Forest Gate along the path, until you find the dwarves. Bring them to me that we might know who they are… and what they have done to merit such attention. I would know _why_ they have drawn the eyes of such creatures so near to our lands, and put our people in danger for their carelessness.” He could see Legolas’ eyes go firm and cold at the implications—the thought that in their cowardice or ignorance or pride, the dwarves might have led the orcs right onto their own people.

“Take Tauriel and her ranks with you, to be certain. Their race has never been known to be anything but stubborn and aggressive.” Grim-faced and determined, his son sketched a half-bow more proper than his previous nod, his hands fisting absently at his sides. “Bring Húrdil with you as well—Húrdil, you will accompany my son and his company, and tell him all you know of the dwarves’ movements, their actions, and what you can glean of their purpose.”

“Yes, my lord.” The guard, Húrdil, was quick to bow, his far deeper and more formal than the prince’s had been, and then again to Legolas. “I will meet you at the gate. I must turn over my command to my second ere we depart,” he noted, and then at a gesture from the king in quick long strides he descended from the throne and made some haste further into the halls.

At his departure Thranduil once more rose, to grasp Legolas by the arm, and then bid him go with a more intimate gesture. “I will know the dwarves’ purpose, and the part they would play in all this. You will bring them to me, _ionneg_ —or slay them, if you must, though I would not have it so.” His voice had dropped to a low murmur, that not even those soldiers about the hall, his own most trusted guards, might not hear him. “I will not have—… You must keep them from reaching the eastern edge of the forest. I fear our people may depend upon it.”

Such a strong command—to slay the dwarves rather than let them escape—seemed to Legolas quite harsh, and Thranduil could see his son’s eyes seeking reason within his own. But whatever the elven prince saw in his countenance must have firmed his resolve enough, for a moment later he clasped Thranduil’s arm back, a look of determination upon his own face as he nodded. “They will not pass, _adar_. Whatever purpose drives them, we will know it—or else end it, as we did the orcs.”

And then Thranduil was released, and he sat back upon his throne as his son sped from his side once more. His blue eyes narrowed as his thoughts began to turn upon what they would learn, once the dwarves were brought to him to be questioned. He had his suspicions, and if he was correct, then already he was set upon his path—and neither the dwarves, nor their _leader_ , would find their way from beneath the leaves of Mirkwood ever again.

* * *

**_TA2941, August 29th_ **

Bilba was not certain how long she’d been standing there, hunched over with her hands on her knees, her breath coming in hot puffs and fighting the urge to let her knees buckle under her. Her sword stood within arm’s reach, jammed into the loamy earth and leaves, and the blade caught the reflection of the forest all around her, but she could not see her reflection in it. Scattered limbs and bits of spiders lay strewn across what of the forest she could see; some she had killed, and others the dwarves had handled. One by one the Company’d been found and freed, some taking up the fight quicker than others, and all of them having to shake off the effects of the spiders’ foul toxins. She’d nearly been stung herself more than once, even with the ring’s invisibility hiding her, and at one point had found herself tangled in a horribly sticky snare of web. She’d almost been done for until she’d managed to cut herself free of that, and then gone toppling end over end to land (thankfully unharmed) on the forest floor. Strands and clumps of webbing still clung to her in spots, she was sure, though she could not see herself to know, nor did she have the time to waste on tidying herself up.

In all the chaos she’d ended up fighting her way _away_ from the dwarves, and now she could barely hear the clangs of their swords and their battle cries, drifting further and further away. Determined not to lose them again, she lurched upright and tugged her little blade free, shaking off the wet leafy detritus that clung to it. She dared not to slip it back into her sheath, for fear that she would need it again too soon, but instead ran along carefully and quietly towards the clamor the dwarves had raised. She had lost all sense of where they were within the forest or how far they’d fought and fled throughout the night, but the easing of her sight made clear that dawn had come—and yet she still felt rife with energy, and keen to fight those that would harm her friends. At their every cry she had to smother the urge to call out that she was coming, lest sound give her position away to the spiders, but only drove on with greater speed and urgency.

In time it became clear that though she ran, so too in flight were the dwarves. Their clangor rang between the trees, now closer, and then at a distance once more. She was delayed as well in moments by late-come spiders, as well as those that had fallen back to recoup their strength and meant to charge again, and some strange trapdoor spiders too, that did not see or hear her, but felt the vibrations of her large feet upon the ground and sprang out to snap at where they thought she must be. She cut down those she passed, but it cost her time, and left her feeling furious and frustrated. Still on and on they fought, and she chased, never seeming to manage to draw closer. She thought there must at some point be an end to the onslaught of spiders, but on seeing several swarm towards them from the right (the south? The west?), she realized that the continued noise of the Company was drawing more and more, even as they ran. _The forest’ll be empty of spiders after this! And maybe dwarves too, the idiots…!_

At one point she thought the worst had come to pass, for through the trees ahead of her she heard a great cry go up, but when she managed to reach where it had come from—a strange clearing, with a still-smoldering fire pit, and a long and bare table—she found no signs of the carnage she’d expected, beyond several more spider carcasses, all hacked and bashed to pulp. _The dwarves are a tough lot, if nothing else. They’ll be alright, Bilba, you’ll see!_

Of course, “alright” to Bilba hadn’t accounted for them ending up taken prisoner—which seemed to be the case when at last she managed to catch up to the Company. The pitch of combat she could hear seemed to suddenly swell, and from all around her came running footsteps, so light as to be nearly unnoticeable. The twang of bows echoed off the trees, and the shouts of the dwarves rose in triumph for just a moment before they turned to brays of dismay and displeasure. Bilba was nearly trampled by the last of the spiders as it took flight, scrambling back the way it’d come (and she was then nearly lanced through by an arrow, fired swift and sure to take it from behind), and she kept low and quiet after that, not wanting to have finally outlasted the beasts to fall to the wayward shot of one she’d taken for an ally.

Finding those same arrows aimed at the Company when she slipped from behind the last of the brush between them was not in her plans or among her expectations. Elves, stern-faced and angry, had beset the dwarves, and herded them into a group. “ _Gyrth in yngyl bain_?” The last of the spiders lay dead, which was some relief; many were stuck with the finely fletched arrows, and others dispatched with precision strikes that could not have come from the more wild attacks of her friends, and for that she felt herself inclined to wait and see what they did—and it was not as if she could have taken on the thirty-some elves that seemed to melt out of the shadows anyway. “ _Ennorner gwanod in yngyl na nyryn. Engain nar._ ” Neither could she hope to sneak any of the Company away, not with each one being closely watched and searched, stripped of their weapons and, to Bilba’s minor displeasure, their keepsakes.

_I imagine Thorin must be in a right state, though he should be glad just to be alive. Goodness, that one’s taken Glóin’s locket—they’re never going to hear the end of that, neither side of them._ She watched as the dwarves were stripped of all their weapons— _It’s a wonder Fili doesn’t ring like a bell with each step, carrying so many knives_ —and nudged into a column, securely edged on either side by the elves with their notched bows. _I do hope the elves think to give their things back after all this mess is sorted. I can’t say I’d much like to be around Glóin if he doesn’t get that back. I know I’d be a right beast if they’d taken my pi—_ Her hand had swept invisible up to her tangled and matted hair, fingers dragging through the curls to find… nothing. Her half-bemused thoughts stumbled to a halt, and she fumbled to sheath her sword so as to use both hands to paw at her mane, untwisting tangles and frantically pulling at knots that might just be hiding her pin… but no such luck. _It’s gone…_ _I’ve lost it somewhere! I’ll have to, I… I can’t just leave—_

“ _Enwenno hain!_ ” She shut her eyes, her hands slowly fisting in her hair and her shoulders slumping as she heard the party begin to move. She had not been caught, could get away, go back… but to what end? She knew the odds of finding her hairpin were slim indeed, and the lives and well-being of her Company were far more important. If she left them now, she would probably never be able to find them again… Still, it tore at her heart to have lost her parents’ gift, and when she let her eyes drift open again she gave a long and hard look back into the brush, willing it to somehow appear… and then forced herself to turn away, and scramble silently after the retreating backs of the elves who brought up the rear.

She firmly bent herself to the task of keeping up, and keeping silent, focusing on going unseen and unheard. The effort was a welcome distraction, but still not quite enough, and more than once she caught herself falling slightly behind the elves’ quick pace, and needing to catch up again. She could not say what marked the path they took—or if anything there was at all to do so, and the way not just held in the elves’ memories—but that it led towards the northeast. The sun was risen now, and the leaves above them were once more green and gold with faint promising shades of orange and red, and none of the tangled dark branches they’d been under after their misadventure on the river. The leaves drifted down in ones and twos, suspended upon golden rays of sunlight, and she felt a strange and subtle magic there as they passed beneath them. Akin to that around Rivendell it was, but different too—fainter, its edges less defined, but no less strong once she had a sense of it, and to her surprise she felt her heartache begin already to ease, a calm contentment flowing into her soften the blow of what loss she felt.

Ahead the dwarves jostled and complained, their shorter legs (like hers) no match for the long elven strides of their captors—and that too caught her attention and she found was worth a second thought, for Bilba noted that none of them were shackled or bound, but merely guarded and some held with hands upon their shoulders to keep them from lashing out or running off. Still, to be herded like livestock was not the kindest treatment, and Bilba knew that some among them would be more full of animosity than awe upon the end of their unplanned detour. She could still hear poor Glóin demanding his effects be returned, and strove her best to ignore him, ere her heart find itself too empathetic and once more saddened by her own loss.

In time the elves marched them to a path—and Bilba had the certain sense that it was the same one they had left behind so long ago back by the riverside—that curved and dropped down past a low hill. _They’re heading home…_ A strange feeling of familiarity came over Bilba at the sight of that curve in the road; as if she'd seen it at some time in her past, or the shape of it at least, and before she even came around it she knew where it would lead—to a split, one branch leading to a carved arch of rock over a larger rushing waterway, beyond which from the side of a great mound were opened tall doors of stone. Indeed there it was, and she felt some mingled awe and trepidation at the sight (and foreknowledge) of it. Towering granite pillars flanked a porch before them, with lines and bands that meshed to resemble trees, though unnaturally straight and rigid ones. She could almost imagine the feel of those engraved lines beneath her fingers, the depth of the grooves and the width of the gaps. Faint patches of pale moss clung here and there in the dips and grooves of the stone, lending to it an aged feel; even more than Rivendell, which seemed forever to be pristine and untouched by time, it gave the gateway to the Halls of Mirkwood (and that too she knew with sudden certainty to be what stood before them) a sense of ancientness, and that they were come now to a grand kingdom of old.

The mighty doors swung wide as they drew near, and more guards were revealed within. They fanned out to absorb the dwarves within their ranks and bear them further along, deftly spacing the Company out to walk in file with two elves between each of them, and many more alongside. Though still lingering in a daze, her awe unabated, Bilba had the sense to stumble after them, ducking through the gate with ample time before it closed, and in the wake of the last of the elves (who carried several of the dwarves’ weapons, she realized) who fell into the rear of the procession. She could not help but turn a circle as she trailed the group, her eyes drawn up the roots and columns and carven stone to the high ceilings of the cavern they stepped into. The entire hillside seemed to have been hollowed out, and she could see branching paths of stone and earth winding away to both sides from the main one they were on. Roots and carved spans bridged gaps to lower levels, and as much of it was left as nature had done as was crafted by hand. Slim rays of light dappled from above, by magic or through well-hidden gaps in the cavern’s crown she did not know—and yet a moment later she had the distinct thought, or memory, perhaps, of golden sun-like crystals embedded in the stone above, their hue so similar to daylight as to be indistinguishable.

A noise from ahead drew her focus back to the present, and she hurried to catch up to the throng that had kept their speed and left her now well behind. Her feet passed thankfully silent over the path and down the stone where it was carved into stairs—though her heart had begun to hammer in her chest with a strange anxiety she could not place, and she had the paranoid thought that surely the elves must be able to hear it. The path wound along organic and meandering ways, and so it took her longer to catch up than a straight road would allow, and even as she followed they had reached wherever the elves were leading them. As she darted along the curving rootway she could see the party further on—they had all been herded to a central colonnade, with a higher set of platforms at its middle. She could not from her lower path see more than the furthest back of them, nor see to whom they spoke, though she could hear the dwarves’ voices in a garbled chorus.

As she reached the lower stairs up to the central terrace it was only in time to see, once more, the Company being led away. In a squalling throng they were taken, separated and driven both left and right by elven grasps firmly upon their arms. She stumbled to a stop upon the edge of the platform, torn on which group to follow, and at a loss for what had happened. From the group being taken to her left she heard Kili cry out, “Thorin!” as he struggled to resist the hands upon him, and indeed of all the dwarves the only one who had been left upon the platform where Bilba now stood was their leader, standing stoically at its center.

For just a moment Bilba thought to go to his side, but the ranks of the elves closed in about him, encircling him and unknowingly warding the hobbit off. She could see the rigid line of his stance past the guards, the tangles of webbing still in his hair, and the scuffs and scrapes he’d suffered in the forest. There among the lissome and pristine figures of the elves he looked even more a sight—and the worse for it, not at all like the king he purported himself to be. She slunk in silence around the rim of the platform, edging closer as much as she could, determined that she would be able to tail along with him when he inevitably was led away, and then pressed herself into a nook where one of the columns and the stone wall that ringed part of the porch met, feeling again that odd increase in her pulse as she held herself there.

In profile she could see that his stare was fixed forward and up, towards what with a glance she realized was a towering throne, crowned in massive antlers and carved into the twist of a singular, giant length of living root that reached from roof to floor. Between that highest seat and the tier Thorin Oakenshield (and herself) now stood upon was another, smaller platform joined by yet more stairs to this one—and there, she saw, stood an elf.

His back was turned, and his hands folded gracefully behind him. He was tall, and clad all in cloth of silver, which was mottled through with a texture that was akin to leaves or the lucent wings of small insects, and faded between bright mithril highlights and more coppery low-lights. She did not need to see the crown of thorn-like branches and autumn leaves and berries upon his head to guess at who he was—it was writ into his bearing, and every line of his posture.

Once more her mind cast back to the warnings from Beorn and Gandalf of those elves that made the deep woods their home—less wise, and more wild, she thought they’d said—and it seemed that Thorin was in agreement, for she could hear him muttering beneath his breath, faint curses in both the common and dwarvish tongues. The look upon the dwarf’s face was one of utter contempt, and disdainful resignation, though beyond defeating the rest of the spiders and bringing the Company hence, Bilba did not know what offense the elves had visited upon the dwarves—though they had indeed disarmed them, she supposed. Still, even the Shire had its Bounders set to mind their borders from any unusual sorts that came wandering in. Why would the dwarves expect otherwise of the elves? It was clear to Bilba that her words of caution had sadly not penetrated the thick skull of the dwarven leader after all, as he seemed ready to spit fire up at the elf, and wasn’t that a pity? _Well, if he puts his foot in it I suppose it’ll fall to me to get him back out of it again, won’t it?_ Though really, she had no interest and few intentions of doing anything to put herself into the disfavor of the elves. She’d been rather fond of those in Rivendell, after all, and had nothing but cautious thanks to give to these ones herself just yet.

Before Thorin’s grumbles could swell into a tirade however (and Bilba knew the look of him when he was about to do so, having been on the receiving end of it herself more times than she would have liked), the Elvenking shifted where he stood. His long pale hair rippled in the light as his head turned just slightly back towards Thorin, over his shoulder but away from where Bilba lurked, and she could see none of his face. But… the voice that then flowed from him, deep and resonant and as clear as a bell in winter, it struck her dumb, and she felt all thoughts of the dwarven king and of any of the Company fall away like so much mist.

“ _Some_ may imagine that a noble quest is at hand.” Like a crack of thunder to split the silence his voice was, and Bilba had to mash a fist against her mouth to keep from crying out, as the very tone of it set her bones to buzzing with some painful, sadder sibling to nostalgia. “A quest to reclaim a homeland, and slay a dragon.” The elf king turned, with movements full of predatory grace so unlike the more ethereal movements of Elrond’s people, and rounded upon the dwarf before him. Bilba’s heart felt fit to beat itself from her chest, and she clamped down on a frantic need that rushed to take hold within her—to flee, to to cry out, she had not the sense to sort it, and so simply clung to the stone around her. “I myself suspect a more _prosaic_ motive…” She saw his face then, as he looked down upon the scowling dwarf. A flash of blue eyes, as blue as a winter sky, as blue as the northernmost ice of the sea, and shining with the light of the stars of Ages long past, and those more recent too.

They were familiar eyes.

Something white hot blazed beneath her breast, a snapping live-wire of near-blinding intensity that scorched through that place where only distant tender longing for something unknown had sat before, and all sound fell away to a distant roaring even as she collapsed back against the stone of the pillar’s base. The edges of her vision dimmed, and her jaw clenched tight enough to make her teeth creak within her mouth from the effort of biting back she knew not what—a scream, a name, a plea, or some joyful song she’d forgotten until that moment. Her mind’s eye flashed with a hundred hundred images in the space of an instant, snatches of memories that were unfamiliar, and yet as real and clear and _known_ to her as if she herself had lived through them all. A proud figure standing atop an airy terrace, looking over a sea of green treetops. Strong slender hands that covered hers to draw a bow and let the arrow fly swift and true. The quiet hum of half-sung words, purring gently where her cheek was leaned upon the singer’s chest. Crowns of flowers, wreaths of leaves; dancing, spinning, laughter that rang across the days. Gentle, secret words: poems, prayers, and promises shared between two souls, and none other… at least until now.

And in each of those dream-like moments she saw the same pale blue eyes staring back at her, until at last the darkness hovering at the edges of her sight swam up to swallow all sense and thought, and left Bilba lying still, insensate and invisible before the Elvenking’s throne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I opted to split the difference between book and movie on Thranduil’s response to Smaug’s attack. The whole bit with him leading troops to Erebor and then just turning away was fabricated entirely for the movies, and in the books he had no interaction with the dwarves outside of their trip through Mirkwood, and with the Battle of Five Armies. I still needed a reason for there to be some animosity between Thorin and the elves, since that’s such a key part of movie-Thorin’s attitude, so I shifted the hook of that to be more on Thranduil’s dealings with Thrór following their fleeing from Erebor.
> 
> Am man theled? - “Why?”, literally “To what purpose?”  
> Adar - “Father”  
> Tolo, govano ven. - “Come here”, literally “come, join us.”  
> Ionneg - “My son”  
> Húrdil - Just a random name I grabbed off a list to give the guard. Literally “Lover/Friend of the Vigor/Fiery Spirit” (gender-neutral)  
> Gyrth in yngyl bain? - “Are the spiders dead?”  
> Ennorner gwanod in yngyl na nyryn. Engain nar. - “Yes, but more will come. They’re growing bolder.”  
> Enwenno hain! - “Take them!”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely anxiouscrab, Thaliaiwe, & Lumenne, who are honestly a terrific support to me, utterly wonderful, and I could not ask for better pals OR betas!!

**_FA462_ **

_Even from the depths of Doriath, from the crowns of the trees above the hill that was over and itself was Menegroth, from near to 200 miles away the glitter of the noon’s bright rays reflecting upon the rapids and currents of the River Gelion were clear to be seen. The river was not so wide as the Sirion, which sped its course on the western side of the forest, nor perhaps as deep as the Celon, which plunged from the heights and along just outside the eastern edge of the Girdle of Melian, but it was longer by far: its track reaching from Maglor’s Gap in the northeast all the way south to Ossiriland in the far south, and then beyond to empty itself into the Great Sea Belegaer. Of the three great rivers, it was also the one the furthest from Thranduil’s home—and it marked what was the edge of the world, or at least what of it he had seen. He often climbed to the heights of the trees over Menegroth to look at it, and to admire the way it met and mingled with so many smaller rivers, joining to become even greater for their added strength._

_He had been born within king Thingol’s realm, and had never known but what his eyes could show him from atop the hill of the city, but with those sights he was intimately familiar. He knew each bend and buck of each river’s rapids, and could tell without thought which forest—Region, Nivrim, or Neldoreth—he was in by the sound or scent of its leaves alone. He could name every mound, every mountain with ease, and had counted every star more than once when they came shining through the dark of night. He knew their constellations and their courses, and though he had never once set foot outside the Veil, he was content, for surely nowhere could there be more beautiful sights than these._

_But so too had he seen wretched things, for while Melian’s Girdle stood resolute and hid all of Thingol’s people from harm, it did not bar or block their sight of the outside world. From atop his perch of holly Thranduil had seen the subtle changes that had been wrought upon the land, by fire, blade, and the hands of the newly-come men and dwarves. He had seen the smoke rising from distant cities set ablaze, and knew every inch of forest that had been cut and culled. He could tell when battle had been done, even far away and to the north, for the rivers’ glittering reflections changed their hue and cast when the streams were mixed with blood. Even the stars were changed in time, drowned in the greater light of some raging inferno, or else smothered by creeping smoke and fog, done as wickedness by some unknown force of darkness._

_When he had been younger he spoke to his father as to the meaning and the cause of such unwanted (and unnatural, to him) changes happening outside their lands. Why, he had wondered, was only the realm of Doriath safe from such alterations? What must be wrong with the rest of the world that it seemed so mutable and chaotic, so painful and unlovely? His father had sadly told him then of the strife of those lands not under their king Thingol’s rule; of war and turmoil, and painful death, and the darkness that Morgoth’s minions sowed… and more, Oropher told his son of the Ñoldor who fought against the darkness, but so too had brought in their wake their own blinding light, the light they’d gained from their time in Valinor, which drowned out all other natural splendors, and so too the shine of the stars the Sindar and Silvan elves loved best of all._

_The world their people were so fond of, it seemed, was doomed to change. From a time well before his birth it had been fated to be so, but that did not change Thranduil’s despair to see it already beginning—from the winnowing of the woods where Men, newly come from the far east, sought to carve themselves a place, to the crumbling peaks of the distant mountains in the wake of great battles and turmoil, the proof was all around. No place could ever be so dear to his heart, he was sure, and to know that there was nothing he could do but wait and watch was a pain that eclipsed any other he had felt in his short life. To leave the bounds of Doriath was to invite death and suffering, and to expose oneself to the tortures of a war that was not of their own making. More than once Thranduil had heard his father speak of the Sindar’s might, and he knew that they had slain many of Morgoth’s forces in the clash between them ere the Ñoldor had come over the sea, but for all that Oropher might wish to wet his blade with orcish blood, he was loyal to his king’s wishes, and would not suffer to serve beneath a high elf for that purpose alone._

_“The lands within the Girdle will be evergreen, my son,” Oropher had spoke to him once, as they sat together atop the holly trees and gazed in sadness out across that same distant river. “Not war nor new-come Man, nor late-returning_ **_brother_ ** _will change this place. Here, at least, the stars will always shine near as bright as they did in the gentle night of our morning days, undimmed by time or trial.” But even that promise was not quite enough to assuage Thranduil’s heart, and Oropher knew it would be so, and did what he could to counsel his son. He had known his child’s spirit from the start, and named him well: all the deep passion of spring in full bloom flowed through Thranduil at the sight of those lands, and he was filled with the thought that what had been meant to be_ **_his_** _, his and his people’s, had been stolen from them by those who had already once abandoned it._

_At length as he sat there atop the tree’s highest branches he resolved to consider following his father’s advice. “Take back what your heart would keep, that our borders cannot, ionneg. If not with the sword—for I would not see you risk your life so wastefully beneath the banner of another—in works. We are of the Eldar, for all that the Ñoldor and Morgoth’s forces both would think us lesser somehow for the twilight we have lingered in, and we are the masters of all the crafts of the world. Capture what of this land moves you, Thranduil. Catch it, and keep it, before it is lost beneath the feet of those who have been blinded—by darkness or by light—to its splendor.”_

* * *

**_FA501_ **

_Faint sparks flew and scattered from the forge, throwing quick bursts of light against the walls of the dim-lit room with each exacting blow of Thranduil’s slender hammer. There were few tools indeed of finer make than those the Eldar in that Age, and their skills as well were rarely matched, and rarer yet exceeded. Only the dwarves, Aulë’s people, whom the smith of the valar had taught much of the secret of his craft to, could occasionally surpass them in it._

_The forging of metal was not among Thranduil’s favored arts, but he had been given little choice in this design. Few materials save those of metal and jewels he had found to match the glittering splendor of the river Gelion, and none but these could he bend to capture that fair distant sheen. Passion fueled his efforts, and drove him better and to greater heights of expertise than he otherwise may have found, for his true skills lay towards the shaping of living things. Still his hands never failed in their deftness as he turned and twisted the metal which he worked, nor flagged in the rhythmic strokes he laid upon it. The glow of the near-molten substance reflected in his eyes; twisting, curving, bending, until at last he was pleased with its shape, and held the length of gold aloft to inspect it closer._

_The slender rod of it had been coiled and bent back into a long-headed shepherd’s crook, and though it was exactly as he wanted it to be, he frowned deeply at the sight of it. “One bend of the river, snared in gold to be kept forever…” He turned it this way and that, pale eyes seeking out any flaws, and when at last he found none it was set aside. From the forge he drew another slim length—this one of mithril, at last hot enough to be worked—and set it upon the anvil._

_As he hammered at the metal he let his mind wander back across the events of the last decades, which had at last firmed in his mind the need for such heirlooms. Death in plenty had come to the wider world, and all about the edges of Doriath the effects of war and the marring of the land were clear to be seen. What he had once with all his heart believed to be the safe bastion of their realm had been at long last breached—by a mortal man, who had sought the hand of their king Thingol’s daughter. Such a trespass was not itself so foul, but it carried with it the scent of change upon the wind, and it had left a sense of unease lingering about many of the hearts of the Sindar people._

_For a time Thranduil had quietly hoped that all would come to rights for the young couple, who were so plainly in love. He had little care nor thought to spare for mortal men, but none could deny the love that Lúthien had for Beren, and though their task had seemed insurmountable, they had overcome it in order to be together._

_And then they had died._

_And though they had been returned from Mandos and lived on (both as mortals now) and had a son, he could not find full joy in their happiness. From the start, from the first news of their death, a sense of doom had come upon Thranduil. Like a thundercloud lingering over the horizon, booming ominously just below the level of hearing and out of sight, it was; as if the air had been growing steadily more full of static energy for the last thirty, forty years._

_The strained sense of foreboding had come to a head the evening before, as Thranduil had lain in a state of serene waking dreams. What had begun as a vision of their lands, untouched as even he himself had never seen, soon began to waver as if beneath a great wind, and the stars above all fell or faded, until everything was cloaked in cloying darkness. The woods around him hushed to unnatural silence, as if not a single soul now dwelled therein, save himself, until at last a booming crack rent the sky, a roar that left him deaf and dazed. Before he could recover from the calamitous noise the forest around him began to sway and rip, and he could feel his hair blowing all around him, tangling, and with a blinding flash the ends began to smolder._

_His sight had sped out from his dream self’s body then, to hover high above, over the land. For just a moment he had seen all of Beleriand spread out beneath him—from Mount Taras set against the edge of the Belegaer Sea to the long range of Ered Luin, with the silver-shining Gelion sweeping past it. His heart surged with joy and longing at the splendor of that land… and then clenched in agony, as a huge winged shadow spread over all he saw, belching flame and shadow, and the whole of the world he had known and loved was sundered and sent sliding into the sea._

_Thranduil had woken in a cold sweat, his fear palpable beneath his breast, and leapt to his work with an unshakable fervor. Something about the dream had left him wary, and he could not shed the anticipation that hung like a cloak from his shoulders. Such dreams could never come to pass, he reasoned, but he found no rest thereafter, and so instead resolved himself to work. He had begun his smithing then with purpose, and his father’s words recalled to mind—to take and keep for himself a piece of this world—and an odd sense that he was running swiftly out of time._

_Gold and silver he smithed, and mithril, set with adamant; he worked and worked through days and nights, deftly weaving and twining, bending and carving. On the dawn of the third day he paused, set down his hammer and tongs, and stood over what his hands had wrought. They twinkled up at him, a pair of matched and slender hairpins, though they were not identical. Both bore the style of the rivers that fed the land, and were edged with leaves of beech and holly. One of the set had set upon it four of the pure white stones, reflecting back the light of the stars he had wrought them beneath—the other had only three, but from between its leaves he’d forged a flower’s bud, a secret hope he could not deny to himself that all his fears would be for naught._

* * *

**_FA587_ **

_In somber silence Thranduil allowed himself to sit upon the low hillock, his eyes fixed upon the small handful of glittering metal which he held, slowly turning and regarding it. He did not notice the colors of the sun’s setting as it dropped to cast radiant beams from beyond the mountain range behind him, for he could not bear to fix his eyes towards the west—towards the lands he had so loved, and now would never see again. Their people’s progress had been slow, marked by indecision in the face of mostly unfamiliar territory, though ever towards the east they had crept. Each time they had stopped to rest, or to give Oropher time to decide their course, Thranduil had pulled free his treasures from his pouch, and lost himself in the sight of their shine and luster. The river Gelion had now ceased its flow; its sources had all been lost to falling rock or mire, they did not know which, mere days before the remnants of the Sindar nation had slipped through the pass to depart from Beleriand forever. Now the river ran only in his memory, and in the shadow of those works he’d wrought._

_The throng of elves had settled from their day’s travel through the low and rolling empty hills of the lands to the east of Ered Luin when they heard it. From over the mountains that now lay to their west, an ear-splitting roar that was fit to crack the world asunder. As one they turned towards the sound, eyes wide and horrified to see one of the peaks of the range begin to slide… and then lift, rising, for it was not a mountain’s side at all, but the wing of some huge monstrous beast that clung thereupon, and raised its head to belch ash and flame. None dared to move nor scream as the fell thing heaved its bulk up, claws carving gouges in the cliffs and rock of the mountains, and then at last flung itself into the sky, and with a great labor of its wings, the wind from which was so strong that it set the petrified and watching Sindar elves’ hair to fluttering from even so far away, it vanished out of sight and to the west._

_Before the migrating clan could catch their breath or make sense of such a terrible sight, its cry rang out once more, shaking the very ground on which they stood. Like the trumpet of some loathsome general, it set the fear of Morgoth in the elves’ hearts, and drew forth from the dark places of those empty lands all the foul and wicked and hungry things that had lain in wait, forgotten away from the sight of men and elves. Goblins and orcs, giant spiders and corrupted beasts, evil shades and such ill things spilled forth, and swarmed in the dragon’s wake—for it had been Ancalagon the Black himself there upon the ridge that they had seen—to the call of their desperate master. To their people’s horror, some number of the dark vala’s army took note of the escaping elves, and bent their course towards them, full of hate and a thirst for their deaths._

_A cry rang out, and then a horn, and what spell of fear had been cast over them broke. Too well outnumbered, the elves could not fight, but instead took flight with all the speed they could muster, and Thranduil leapt up to go to his father’s side at once—but the fear was still clutched to his heart, for he had recognized the epic shadow that had hung upon the mountain, and had heard its cry once before, though only in a dream. His hands shook as he rose, and he fumbled as he shoved the hairpieces back into his belt, his mind flung back across the years to recall the fate now being wrought upon his former home. He could see nothing but that land, sundered and sliding into the sea in his mind’s eye, and thus blinded he did not mark the tumbling fall of one of the pair of pins into the dirt, to be pressed and stamped into the grass by the thronging pass of many feet, where it would lay, buried and forgotten, for more than two Ages of the world.  
_

* * *

**_TA2941, August 29th_ **

The distant boom of the gate to the Elvenking’s Halls heralded Legolas’ successful return from the mission he had been set upon, and drew Thranduil from his wandering thoughts. There was no shade of doubt in his mind over whether or not the prince had managed the task put before him—there was simply no possibility that the _dwarves_ had been able to elude his elves; not here within their own forest, nor anywhere else on Middle Earth.

It was a small comfort that _one_ thing at least should be assured, for all else in life of late had seemed less certain, less as it should have been. The forest writhed outside his realm of influence, and for all their efforts there seemed no end to the spiders and orcs that hedged about their borders. And less significant (though it was beyond his ability to ignore it) Thranduil had once more felt the bands about his heart begin to heat and crackle, until they were so strange and luminous that he could not bear to attempt to touch them with his mind.

It unnerved him that the quiet continuity of his world had been altered so greatly, and all at once. He did not care for the faint creeping sense of reckless speed, of being flung headlong towards some fate he could not fathom… but at least, for a moment with his son’s successful return, he could pretend that all was as he wanted it to be. Yes, indeed already he could hear the dwarves’ approach, chasing away his other considerations as distaste flavored his tongue at the volume of their heavy footfalls over wood and stone, and the dull roar of their continuous stream of demands and invectives. Ever prideful and stubborn were the dwarven people.

Thranduil watched with feigned barest interest as they were led along to stand, penned like well-herded sheep, before the foot of his throne, still growling and glaring as if they were in any position to demand consideration, let alone the respect they imagined they were owed. A ragged bunch, certainly, and treated unkindly by his forest… Though from what reports he had received in the previous days and weeks of their movements, they had been lost from the Path for quite some time, and woefully unsupplied following the loss of their packs, which had been discovered near the river crossing. There were a fair number of them—a dozen and a spare, at a glance—and all were dirty, web-clung, and gaunt with hunger (and he found it to their credit that their posturing did not flag in the face of what must have been near-starvation).

Still, none of their diatribe did move him, and the dwarves would find his cool impassive demeanor, which so many of Thranduil’s people had been familiar with prior to the last half-century, unshaken as he considered their fate. In truth he was of two minds: one of rightful ire, and concern as he caught a proper glimpse of one of those dwarves lingering toward the back of the throng and felt recognition bloom in his memory; the other one of guilt, for it was to his own discredit that the forest had become so dangerous for mortal travelers, and the Path so long untended. It was his duty to keep all ways through his lands safe… but then his anger flared again, and he pressed his shame aside.

Swift of foot were the messengers of his realm, and to him they had flown earlier in the day with news that only some few hours past, these same dwarves had come frantically upon a party of his own elven people, who had been feasting in the golden eaves of his realm, and led upon them a swarm of those huge and hideous spiders which they had aggravated enough to give them chase out of the darker parts of the forest. The elves of course had defended themselves and thankfully been unharmed before they could take flight from the clearing, but it did not change that the dwarves had, through their actions and carelessness, endangered several of his realm’s citizens—which Thranduil could not easily forgive.

 _But then_ , he supposed with more patient consideration than they were owed as he looked their bedraggled number over, _it should fall to the dwarves’ leader to shoulder the burden of their actions_. Clearly said dwarf—and now at last Thranduil rose from his throne, casting off his cloak with a sweep of his arm, his pale eyes boring into that hindmost dark-haired figure, so similar in bearing to his father’s father before him—was ill-prepared and ill-advised, to have so misled his followers, dragging them to near-death and starvation in a place far from the hills and mountains they must have loved. Loyalty was, perhaps, not a thing to be punished—and so with a gesture he bid his guards to action. The constant grumbles of the dwarves grew to shouts then, as they were split into two groups and led from his sight—all save _that_ one, who remained as smugly silent as he had been ever since his arrival, now left to stand alone before the Elvenking. _A pity their loyalties are to one so foolish as this—would that the line of Durin still merited such devotion._

With long, slow, patient steps he descended from on high to circle the dwarf, inspecting him from all sides and seeing there those same signs of struggle and starvation his companions had worn—a small point in Thorin’s favor, for if he had let his people suffer while he himself kept fed and from harm, it would have spelled his doom in Thranduil’s mind. The dwarf gave no sign of care that he was being so considered, his haughty gaze fixed up and into space, impassive and unknowable as the stone his kind loved so well… or so Thorin would have had him think. The subtle spark of worry when one of those being led away called back to him was not so well-smothered as the would-be-king might hope, and Thranduil marked it well as he turned back to his throne, ascending to stand once more above the dwarf in pensive silence. Family, some of them must be, and for only a moment he allowed himself to feel something of sympathy for the dwarves for their separation, even though it was his own will that had caused it—to lose family, even for a little while, was painful. He knew such loss well. Idly he thumbed at the hidden band about his finger, turning it, twisting… and then cast aside his sympathies.

Already he feared he could guess the purpose of such interlopers. Could guess it… and feared to know it. Over and over in his mind he turned his thoughts, seeking with quiet desperation any other course they could be upon, and yet finding none. Long had the treasure hoard of Thrór held sway over the hearts of his people and his descendants, but that trove served as the bed for the last great serpent made by Morgoth’s hands, and would not be easily reclaimed. And Thorin Oakenshield thought to do so with a mere dozen dwarves, few of whom indeed seemed fit as warriors? _A fool indeed…_

At last he was resigned to know that there could be no other truth to the dwarves’ purpose within his lands. “ _Some_ may imagine that a noble quest is at hand.” He could not allow it. Would not permit the wholesale destruction they would so eagerly unleash. “A quest to reclaim a homeland, and slay a dragon.” He turned, meeting the dwarf lord’s eyes without hesitation and with a cold resolve. He could see the blind hatred in Thorin’s stare, the pride and greedy desire, no matter how he tried to hide it.

But Thranduil would not lose another soul to dragonfire, not a _one_. _Thorin_ would doom his own people, and hundreds, thousands more if it meant a chance to reclaim their gold—and Thranduil instead would _save_ them, though they would surely curse him for doing so. “I myself suspect a more _prosaic_ motive…” He could see the dwarf’s eyes go hard and flat—what faint light of disdain and hubris shining there shuttering to the dark depths of base hatred. So be it. What was one dwarf’s anger, one captive lifetime when weighed against the care and safety of _thousands_? Yes, he would gladly shoulder the burden of sacrificing the one to spare the other.

* * *

**_TA2941, August 30th_ **

Bilba knew on some level that her eyes were closed, but it did not stop her from seeing just as clear as she ever had. Against the back of her eyelids the last of the swirling visions— _Strange dreams indeed,_  she mused with swimming, sluggish half-thought—began to fade away, until only those startling pale blue eyes that had laced through each one of them remained, staring back at her with an intensity that made her shiver even as she blinked awake. She flinched against the last of the sparks of pain that trailed along her skull, her nose scrunching as the pounding sensation fizzled out to mesh and fade into with muting pulse of the wispy shadow-world of the ring. For some long moments she simply lay still, her overworked mind trying to process just what had come over her.

 _It only makes sense_ , she eventually resolved, _that you’ve gone and passed out_. After all, she’d no idea how long she had been awake before that, between the day’s march, climbing that terribly tall tree both up and down, her search for the Company, the battle with the spiders, and then trailing the elves and dwarves back to the Halls of the Elvenking. The sheer excitement of it all must have given her the strength to carry on well past what her half-starved body would normally tolerate, and then gone and given out as soon as she’d taken a moment to sit still. _Yes, that must have been it, bad timing though it was_ , she decided.

She seemed quite fine now though, as well as not having been discovered; she was not tired at all, at least in body. Her mind was still reeling, and the constant dull howling of the world of the ring left her feeling vaguely smothered and washed out—and she’d had the _strangest_ dreams. Already they were slipping away, however; fading into her subconsciousness, all her wonderings about them replaced by the more important realization that she was quite alone upon the platform before the towering throne, with no elves or dwarves to be seen, and no clue where they’d been taken. She must have been out for _hours_ to have missed what surely would have been an interrogation, and had slept through what fate was decreed upon the heads of her friends. She sat and then rose up onto her feet, and as she did she felt no twinge of pain from the hardness of the floor… so perhaps it had not been _too_ long, and if she were lucky, she would find the company before much longer (or at least before the dwarves brought doom upon their heads with their undoubtedly terrible manners—she could still clearly remember their atrocious behavior in Rivendell, where they’d been _guests_ and not _captives_ ).

The light that flowed down from the roof of the cavernous hall was duller now, she noticed, soft and faded, though the exact color of it was as pale and washed out as she had seen it earlier. She could imagine that it had taken on shades more appropriate for the deep of night, cool blue and silver hues with glittering flecks, motes of dust and pollen suspended on its tenuous rays. A glance about revealed that while earlier the hall had been flanked on all sides by statuesque guards in armor of silver and bronze, there were but few remaining now, neatly hidden behind stone columns and flanking the arched openings of passages where the hall split off on either side. What other elves had lingered there to see the dwarves being led in and managed were gone too, and silence reigned over all she saw, though a moment’s focus let her catch the faint chirps of nighttime insects and what could only be the constant jurr of the river where it ran around or beneath the Halls.

The terrace where she stood was almost uncomfortably vacant now; Thorin was long gone from where he’d stood, with no sign nor trace of where he’d been taken—and the Elvenking had left as well, which came as both a relief and a sadness, and it was a surprise when she realized she quite cared about _both_ of their absences. Even _that_ brief passing thought of the Elvenking left her unsettled, and she pressed a hand over her chest to still or smother the pounding of her increased pulse, and the strange tender warmth that had begun curling in the pit of her heart. It stood out sharply against the droning buffeting of the ring-world’s gusting winds, and she grimaced at the clash; it was not unpleasant, but… it _was_ unexpected, and she felt a blush creep up across her cheeks and neck, and along the tops of her ears at her own foolishness.

He’d been… terribly handsome, of course, he was an _elf_ for goodness’ sakes, but… She could feel the odd vertigo-like rush that had come over her shortly before she’d passed out rising up again, faint thoughts (or dreams of memories) lurking just below the surface of her subconscious, and she quickly gave herself a shake, forcefully shoving all thoughts of him away. _This is_ **_not_ ** _the time to go all twitter-pated over some poor fellow, Bilba my girl, no matter how comely you think he is. You’ve_ **_got_ ** _to find the Company, now_ **_focus_** _!_ The only thing that she _needed_ to worry about in regards to Thranduil was that she not get caught slinking about his kingdom like… well, like a burglar, really!

Quiet as a mouse (and quieter, given that she had no doubt the elven guards would be able to hear even those tiny creatures) she moved to the edge of the platform and crept down the stairs and along the winding rootway that twisted towards the cavern floor. From there she had several options, and she paced about in circles, staring down each dark hallway as best she could without drawing too near to the guards beside them. All seemed quiet, with the kingdom well-settled in for the night. At most she could hear faint footsteps down each of the passages, and quiet voices. No yelling, not in elven, dwarven, or the common tongue, which was worth a note—it either meant that the Company were _somehow_ all asleep in the belly of an elven city, or else it meant that they were being held somewhere far, _far_ from where she was now, far enough that even her fine hearing could not catch a single squeak or snore from them. She could not imagine that they had been cast _out_ of the Elvenking’s Halls, for Thorin would not have spoken of their purpose to any others, and especially not to an elf, and _most_ especially not to one who could rival his own perceived standing and importance, like Thranduil, and she did not believe the Company would have been dragged away into the Halls’ depths only to be set free a moment later.

 _More than likely they’ve simply been locked up_ , she mused as she made her way down into one of the tunnels, ducking past the guards with nary a whisper and letting her feet lead her. One path was as good as another at this point; the elves of course did not label the hallways in their own home, though she supposed that if one were to look for dungeons they would probably _down_ , not _up_ , and so had taken the path that sloped steeper downwards. _And more than one of them will have bruised their shoulder trying to ram the door or cell bars in all their fuss._ The stone path spiraled down a ways, occasionally branching off to one side or the other, into broader rooms for feasting or for crafting; it was quite simply an entirely functional city underground, rather as she expected Erebor would be once saved—though markedly less dusty, she assumed, and without the reek of dragon.

At length she found her way down to what served the elves as a dungeon: a long deep chasm with narrow paths along the ledges, barred doors of meshed steel sunk into the rough-hewn walls, and lit only here and there by sconces that glowed with faint honey-colored light. She’d expected that the dwarves would be spread out, at least divided into groups as they’d been when she’d seen them led away, and so braced herself to search the dungeons over to find them all. The fact that they were yet silent did her no favors, and made her wonder if they could all have been set so far apart from each other that not even at a yell could they converse—and had fallen into somber silence at that fact. If only she could hear them, it would be quicker… But nothing doing, and she set to searching without delay, creeping along through the ample shadows.

* * *

It was quite some hours later, after searching high and low, near and far, and even daring to whisper faint calls that went unanswered that she at last had to accept the truth. Bilba crept into one of the last cells she’d checked, one long unused by virtue of being near the bottom of the levels and tucked away from the few sources of light, and settled herself upon the low cot there. Without thought her hand dragged through her curls, seeking her pin to thumb in absent need of comfort—to find and recall that it was not there, and her long and tangled curls hung loosely about her shoulders had the opposite effect, and she could not help but gulp a rather wet, near-tearful sigh. The dwarves of the Company, as it turned out, were not being held in the dungeons at all. Not a single one of them, not a lost boot or shed hair, nor even a whiff of their pungent earthy stink could be found—and Bilba Baggins, her friends’ would-be savior, instead found _herself_ quite alone, and with no idea where to begin to find them.

For a time she simply sat there, wracking her brain and doing her best not to let panic take her. They had to be _somewhere_ , hadn’t they? If not the dungeons, then _where_? She would have to search… but she knew the Elven Halls were vast, vast enough to shelter all who lived within the forest in times of need—she was sure she’d been told that at some point, or read it, maybe. Either way, she knew on some level how very large the task now set before her was—and they must be within the Halls, somewhere. She refused to think they’d been released, if only because she could not imagine them leaving her behind… could she? _Couldn’t they? Hadn’t they nearly done, been ready to do, once before?_ She flinched against the grim thoughts, come from somewhere deep inside to whisper at her ear there in the darkness of the silent dungeon. _Of course they wouldn’t. They would never just up and leave me… they need me, don’t they?_ She shoved the wretched whisper down, leaping to her feet and darting out into the wavering light of the torches, panting though she had only run a few feet.

 _There’s no time to consider that sort of grimness. They’re here somewhere, and I’ll find them. And if they’re_ **_not_ ** _here, then I_ **_know_ ** _they’ll be somewhere between here and the mountain, and looking for me no doubt._ She clutched her resolve like a trinket for luck, and grit her teeth as she began the slow climb back up through the chasm towards the main of Thranduil’s Halls. _Even if the elves did try to turn them out, I know they would not want to go without me. I’m sure they’re just as worried as I am; as far’s they know I’m still lost in the woods, too! Ha… poor things are probably worried sick, yes…_

Still, she could not quite ignore the soft-spoken and sullen part of herself that trilled in the back of her mind in warning. _The only reason they’d worry is because they’ve a different death in mind for you, Bilba my girl—one involving something much_ **_bigger_ ** _than any spider, you know._

* * *

**_TA2941, September 3rd_ **

_Wanderers in the shadowed land,_  
_despair not, for though dark they stand,_  
_all woods there be must end at last,_  
_and see the open sun go past:_  
_the setting sun, the rising sun,_  
_the day's end, or the day begun.  
For east or west all woods must fail—_

“Bilba! Bilba, is that you?!”

Bilba flattened against the shadowy nook where wall and floor met, her breath come rapid to choke her absently-mumbled song to silence. _Fool of a Baggins!_ She hadn’t even realized when the tune had slipped from thought to tongue, and wouldn’t that have been a treat? To have some elf come find her by sound alone because she couldn’t keep her thoughts in her head? The idea that the isolation (for though she saw plenty of the elves as they moved about the halls, she was of course unable to talk to them, or even draw too near for fear of being discovered) must be getting to her lasted only as long as it took to realize that she’d recognized the voice that’d come through the door immediately to her left, and then it was all she could do to keep from crying out and flinging herself at it.

“Ori! Ori, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she breathed into the place where door and frame met. Her hand, suddenly quite sweaty and fumbling in her franticness, scrabbled for the doorknob and gave it a sharp twist as she all but forced herself against the door. It did not yield, however, and she did cry out then, a moaning wail of frustration that Ori quickly shushed down from through the wood.

“Bilba, Bilba please! The guards come around every, every few minutes so you’ve got to hide and be quiet, or they’ll catch you!” She could hear muffled movement now from inside the room—and indeed a room it must be, for she had poked her head into several similar doors in her explorations, finding small if tidy rooms in plenty, with beds and tables, and some even having windows or small porches that jutted from the side of the hill the Elven Halls sat beneath. A moment later a second voice joined in with Ori’s, one rougher but no less quiet—Nori, and with his voice came the faint sounds of metal on metal from just below the doorknob. “Get out’f the way, Ori, and I’ll have it open! Bilba, you’d best be set to move—by my count th’guards won’t be by for another shake or two, but y’never know with these leaf-ears!”

In the two heartbeats between Nori’s warning and the door’s silent swinging open, the intense urge to not reveal just _how_ she’d been keeping hidden struck her sharply, and even as the doorknob began to turn—and her ears caught the sound of soft footsteps about to turn the corner—she slid the golden band from her finger and into her pocket. She sucked a gasping breath at the sudden rush of vibrant color into her vision, and the empty quietness that replaced the endless howling wind of the ring-world. Her body felt terribly heavy, though excitement still buzzed through her enough to not just stand there dumbly when Nori’s hand flashed out to snag her by the shirt and haul her forward and out of the hallway, slamming the door shut behind just moments before a pair of elves turned to come pacing down and past the room.

She collided with the dwarf’s solid chest as he tugged her, and in the same movement he spun to deposit her atop a pile of their coats—his and Ori’s—that had been left lumped behind the door. Without a word Ori tugged one of the heavy leather jackets over her, leaving her in muffled darkness. “You’ve been reading that the whole time if they come in, aye?” She heard Nori whisper—she could not see Ori’s reply, but guessed he nodded. Long moments passed in silence, as they all three held their breaths… until at last the footsteps, which had paused and circled ‘round outside the door resumed, fading down the hall and out of hearing.

The burst of light when the brothers ripped the jacket off her was nearly blinding, and Bilba simply lay still, overcome at last with relief and exhaustion as they both did their best to set her head to spinning, asking a hundred questions each. Oh to let her eyes drift shut—the urge was tempting indeed, and she felt like she could sleep a week. There had been little chance to rest before this, for while there were empty rooms in plenty, the nagging doubt and fear that she’d been abandoned refused to leave her, and denied her any sleep at all beyond the few minutes she managed to snatch here or there before her traitorous mind began to murmur once more. At length the dwarves relented, realizing perhaps that she was out of sorts and settling for simply sitting bunched about her as she’d seen them often do with Dori.

She dozed a while tucked there safely, waking only once when Nori lurched away and buried her again within the coats—returning several minutes later to shove a bit of cheese and ripe fruit into her hands, and half a fish after that for good measure. The food revived her as much as the company did, and before more than a few hours had passed she had her head on straight again. It was dangerous to linger in the room they’d been confined to—and that had been something of a surprise, to learn that while they were quite surely prisoners, the elves’ treatment of them had been far better than the dwarves had expected. They were well-fed, well-watered, kept in pairs, and often with their relations (though Dori had been roomed with Bofur, which neither of them were terribly pleased about) and even permitted to wander now and then, though not outside the Halls, and never without several guards within an arm’s reach at any moment.

Of Thorin’s state and location none of the dwarves had an inkling of a clue. The last any of them had seen of their leader was the same moment that Bilba had been there for—alone in the throne room with King Thranduil. Wherever and however he was being kept, it seemed his leash was the shortest of them all, and most likely he was not allowed the same freedoms the ‘common dwarves’ had been afforded.

“I imagine the Elvenking is hoping he’ll reveal our quest,” Ori confided, his hands picking at the woven fabric of his cardigan’s hem. “He’s taken one or two of us before, to, to ask about it.” The ginger dwarf shot a glance towards his brother, who shrugged. “It isn’ like’e tortures us or anythin’. Just asks questions, an’ stands there lookin’ as smug an’ haughty as you’d expect. Then sends us back to our rooms like bad wee children—honestly I’ve had worse times of it with other _dwarves_ , y’know?” Ori’d clapped his mittened hands over his ears at that, and Nori had given his brother’s shoulder a gentle punch before relenting from the topic.

They talked a while longer—and Ori, the sweet boy, insisted she take a bit of seed cake he had saved from the evening prior—before they all agreed she should move on. It wasn’t safe to linger, and while Nori had no trouble picking the locks, even he knew he wouldn’t get more than thirty yards down the hall without being found out. Bilba, by whatever tricky hobbit magic she employed (as Nori’d put it), had kept herself from sight and sound for several days, and was clearly the choice to keep doing so. They were not certain just how far away the rest were being kept, but they offered what information they had—the directions the others were led to and from when they were rarely allowed to mingle—to help her find her way. Thorin, of course, would be the hardest to find, but Ori’s wide-eyed faith in her made Bilba keen to prove her mettle as a sneak.

“I’ll be sleepin’ against th’ door should y’come by an’ need in—not tha’ I wasn’ doin’ already, mind, just sound practice in enemy territory, an’ no cheek from you for my callin’m tha! But aye, you need a place to hide or catch a kip, you come knockin’ here, gentle as you please, an’ I’ll have’r open in a wink, hmm?” Nori gave her hair a tousle—he’d offered her a slim strip of leather to tie it back, which she had accepted with glum necessity—and then set to work popping the lock to turn her loose.

Ori gave a gentle tug at her sleeve, drawing her attention from watching his brother work to undo the lock again with what she thought must have once been the handle of a spoon. “Please be careful Bilba… We already had, had to m-mourn you once, when we realized that you were still, still out there with the, the—” She shushed Ori then, tugging him in for a tight, if brief hug. “Don’t worry about me, Ori, lad—they won’t see a hair of me unless I want them to. I made it out of Goblin Town, didn’t I?”

And then the lock was sprung, and she pulled away to dart out into the hall before her courage could fail. As soon as she was out and with the door shut behind her, she shoved a hand into her pocket, steeling herself and once more slipping on the ring, to let it leech away the world’s color with its howling windy tendrils.

* * *

**_TA2941, September 6th_ **

Three days later, with luck and patience, she had located all of the dwarves, save Thorin. They were of course pleased to see her (or rather, hear her, for aside from one other half-night she’d spent dozing in Ori and Nori’s coats she had not actually spent any time with the ring off for fear of being spotted) and less pleased to be being held as prisoners. The fact that they were being kept more like guests than captives seemed to be lost on them, and when each was brought before the King—she had only thought to watch one such interrogation, just to be sure that nothing cruel was being done, and yet the mere sight of him had fascinated her, and his voice had made her want to hang on every word, and she’d found herself returning to watch and listen every time thereafter—would do nothing but swear and scowl, leaving Bilba truly impressed with the elf’s patience. _I would have boxed Dwalin’s ears for his rudeness, and see if he got dinner_ **_or_ ** _breakfast with talk like that on his tongue,_ she’d mused to herself after the burly dwarf had been dragged back out of the throne room.

She’d also taken the time to begin hunting about for anything that could inspire her into a rescue plan—she had little idea at all of how she would manage to sneak the entire Company away, as they were still quite resolved against simply sharing their purpose and seeking aid or their freedom through a bargain. Nori could pick the locks, but there was just no way to keep _dwarves_ quiet enough to go unnoticed. Each exit to Thranduil’s halls was guarded without break, and though she’d managed to slip out into the forest unseen at one point, ducking through as a group of elves returned from some hunt or skirmish came loping in, all it won her was several long hours of tense waiting against the doorway, and the worry that she’d just managed to lock herself out for good before the gate swung open again to let fresh hunters leave, and herself sneak back in.

 _Thorin_ _would probably have some idea of what to do,_ she mused at length, _Some plan or choice of how to handle this._ ** _He’s_** _our leader, why can’t_ ** _he_** _be the one to figure this all out?_ Of course, if Thorin had his way they’d no doubt set the forest to the flame as they made their escape, so while it was a miserable task to shoulder, perhaps it was for the best that it fell to her to solve. She at least had _some_ sense! _Gracious it would be easy though, to simply offer Thranduil my share to turn them loose._ She had the distinct feeling though that Thorin would rather melt it all down than give the Elvenking a single coin of it. _It isn’t as if I would need it in the Shire… if I ever go back there, dragon or not._

In truth she found that the earthy Halls of Mirkwood were more to her liking than even Rivendell had been. In the rare moments she had let herself enjoy the sights and sounds around her she had been awestruck, enraptured by the wonder of that elegant but still-wild realm. There was an energy about the place, palpable enough that she could feel it all around her, and she fed on it, taking it as a balm to keep her spirits from flagging even when her efforts failed to bear fruit. Perhaps, once the dwarves had seen her on her way from the mountain, she could just… discreetly offer some of her share to the elves, and in exchange be allowed to live within the forest, if not among the elves themselves once all was said and done.

 _Probably not. I can’t imagine them being too fond of a burglar, after all. Especially one planning to burgle their captives… and their berry pastries._ She popped the last of the sweet treat she’d snatched from one of the elves’ kitchens into her mouth, savoring it as she perched atop a low bend of a root overlooking the chamber where the throne stood tall and proud, and where the Elvenking was currently sitting in deep conversation with one of his guards or scouts, who’d come following Dwalin’s removal to speak to him. The idea to simply sit and wait until Thranduil had Thorin brought before him was not a new one, but she had been hesitant to stay at length away from the rest of the dwarves in case they had news or need of her. They had come to quite rely upon her to ferry messages between them, and keep them from stir craziness by distracting them all from time to time. She’d slipped up more than once since that first time, letting herself be coaxed into humming or singing quietly outside their doors when the coast seemed clear. It worked as well as it had done in the forest though, and if it helped to keep them in good cheer… well, she still was invisible, and could run away if any elves came by and heard her crooning.

It looked like she would not be lucky enough to find Thorin today either, and she shifted on her seat, meaning to go and check in with her dwarves before combing through yet another section of the Halls. She’d perched to ofar to hear the hushed words of the elves, though it was plenty near enough to hear dwarven shouting, so it had suited her needs. She found her feet and turned, but then hesitated—across the room she’d caught Thranduil leaning forward to extend a hand towards the scout, and then the sudden string of tension that snapped like a spring through the lines of his body. It was nearly a tangible thing, the sudden strain that shrouded the room, and she felt herself go rigid too, and the inexplicable but certain knowledge that whatever he had been shown or given was not what he had expected came rippling through her like cold water. A strange and sudden sadness washed over her then, and with all thoughts of returning to the dwarves drowned out by it, she sought only to flee, to find a place where she could sit, alone, and brace herself against the singular onslaught of emotion she was somehow now subject to.

Deep into the heart of the Elven Halls she let her feet take her, until she ceased to feel stone or wood, but instead loamy soil and fallen leaves beneath her feet. In her doleful and distracted wandering she had come upon a small, undecorated door, that seemed itself sunk into a wall that at its base met a forest floor, and not the solid stone of the carved caves and tunnels. Layers of leaves scattered inwards from the doorway, though all were old and dead, and few were left with the crisp crackle of the fresh-fallen. Most were barely tatters left, or translucent webs of fibers where once their veins had been, gone nearly as soft as the powdery silt they were crumbling into. The door itself had no knob, but resisted her touch when she pushed at it, somehow locked—until it wasn’t, and she snatched her hand back in shock as it gave way, swinging open as easily and silently as her old hobbit hole’s green door had ever done.

Beyond the open gate sprawled a lush—if untended—courtyard garden. It was little more than a dip tucked down between the sharp cliffs of several higher bulges of the hill, and partially shadowed on one side by the thrust of a lone balcony carved of pale stone, from which hung a thick veil of vines, drooping down to shroud a lone bench with its legs half-buried in the leaf litter and seemingly long forgotten. Pale blossoms bloomed unruly where they might, their delicate shapes proof enough that they were none that naturally would have been found there, but the sheer disarray of their stems and how wildly they’d spread spoke of seasons left to their own business. A small pool to one side, slick with moss, spilled up to the roots of a drooping willow, its slender fronds still pale spring-green even amid the early autumn shades of red and orange already spilling through the trees of the forest proper, which were visible further up atop the hills, and through the gaps of them further beyond in all directions.

All was still around her, with not even the wind able to reach down into the little sheltered garden. As she pulled her hand from the stone of the door it slid shut behind her once more—and there was no knob on the outside either, but she got the sense that it would open at her touch again, and not before, though she could not say where the idea had come from. On silent feet she moved through the sanctum, not having expected to find it but happy to have done so, and did her best to respect whatever the unknown significance of the place was. The bench seemed to call to her, and to promise a restful repose—and the thick curtain of vines would allow her to remove the ring again, which she did with a gusting sigh, though she did not dare to pocket it.

She’d learned over the days that the ring seemed to hold the need for sleep at bay, to give her speed and strength, as well as it made her invisible. But it made her heart strange as well, more prone to strong emotions, and sometimes she found herself feeling angry or sad when she had no reason to. Once removed, she swiftly seemed to feel all the aches and stresses of those days she’d spent wearing it come flooding in at once, on top of those emotions which were less quick to fade—and the sudden wrack of them all, of her own deep exhaustion combined with that sourceless sorrow that had come from nowhere to clutch at her heart as she’d gazed at the Elvenking, began to choke her, and left her gasping, silent, breathless beneath the stone veranda.

* * *

Strange had been his halls of late, it seemed to Thranduil, ever since the dwarves had been captured and brought forth. Mysteries had come upon their heels, and the least of those was the nature of the dwarves’ quest. It had taken little time indeed to suss that _secret_ out—one look into the face of Thorin Oakenshield was all that was needed to make supposition certain. Knowing where they meant to travel, however, did nothing to answer _why_ such ill-suited sorts as Oakenshield had led had thrown their lots in with the would-be king (and Thranduil’s questioning of those dwarves was aimed to find that out, and not learn the nature of their mission as he let them suspect, for that he already had guessed). If life for the dwarves was so very desperate as to make death between a dragon’s teeth seem preferable, he would know of it—and so sought to interrogate them, one by one, and to learn.

His current _guest_ was of little mind to talk civilly, however, though he had expected little of him. Tall he was, for a dwarf, with a bald pate and scrawling tattoos. More muscle than mind, but amply suited for the role the Elvenking assumed he held—a bodyguard to his leader, at least, and one who would rather die than speak a word, save to swear or curse, to an elf. Such invective had been the whole of their ‘conversation’, the grit-rough warrior answering each question with a snarl or spat word, though none held any real weight, nor could cut through Thranduil’s cold demeanor, and the elf knew his own patience was the greater of the two. Let the dwarf rage and burn, and hate him all he liked. He might as well be an insect, buzzing at a boot for all the good it would do.

At length when he grew tired of being insulted (and the dwarf had run out of curses to hurl and begun to repeat himself) he waved a guard to take the growling captive away, and return him to his kin. The warrior increased his pitch and tone then, demanding after his would-be-king, but received only disregard in turn. _Let him report back his failure, and let the rest of them grow wearied by their lack of knowledge of Thorin’s fate_ , Thranduil thought then to himself. _And perhaps when they become compliant I will solve_ **_that_ ** _mystery for them._

Now Thranduil let his mind begin to rove, for there were other riddles the Elvenking found himself wondering at as well. Several of his guards had reported the strange sensation of being watched as they stood their posts—not with any malice they could sense, but watched all the same, though each one admitted to having been quite alone when they had felt those eyes upon them. Some of the civilians who dwelled within his Halls as well claimed to have heard faint footsteps from down empty corridors; they felt the moving, passing air around a figure that none could see, drifting like a breeze that was there and gone again as soon as any dared to draw near. And most interesting of all (though it had been more disturbing than fascinating to those who had experienced it, as they told it to their king) were the faint strains of song, in both the tongues of men and elves, that had been heard in the depths of night at just above the level of hearing.

Sometimes only wordless humming, the disembodied singer was reportedly female, at least in voice, and her tone both sweet and sad in turns. Whatever the source of the singing was, it did not seem to remain in one area—it had been heard across all levels of his Halls, by soldier and by servant, and Thranduil would almost have thought to write it off as some elfling’s prank, if not for that only the morning prior it had been Legolas himself who had caught the faint strains of it, there and gone again as he went to meet with Tauriel to plan their next attack upon the spiders. If any among the Woodland elves would have been able to find the source (if a physical source there was), it would have been his son, but even _he_ had found only the gently settling air where he had thought to find the singer, and no sign nor trace of anyone having passed that way but himself.

Still, whisperings of a singing spirit loose in the Elven Halls were little more than a distraction, and Thranduil fought to spare few thoughts for such diversions when his realm lingered in the shadow of danger. A brief respite to speculate upon it was mental rest enough, and then he forced his mind back to the front, to more important businesses. The spiders remained entrenched beyond the bounds of their borders, and multiplied and ever sought to encroach upon them. Orcs as well had been seen within the woods, skulking even in sight of the gates, and thronging north and west and east. Always they moved away from Dol Guldur, though when the elves found them they made sure not one among the foul ranks managed to return there.

It was becoming more and more clear to Thranduil that the dark forces of the land were rising in swiftness hereto unseen in the Third Age, to strike out at the unsuspecting world. Long had he desired to cull the pit of darkness to the south of his realm, but he feared his people’s numbers too few to find victory without a heavy toll, and he knew the eager, hopeful blindness of those other realms of elves and men towards their plight. Now they faced the consequences of the willful ignorance of the rest of the world—and so too would those other lands suffer, should the elves of Mirkwood fall and leave the paths of those dark things unchecked.

But little would the march of orcs or arachnids matter to those who were turned to ash in the breath of a fire drake. Such beastly creations were yet bound to the side of Morgoth and his lieutenants, and Smaug would heed the Dark Lord’s call. It was an ill-fated time for the dwarves to have received their omens (for that was what had spurred this quest, he had gleaned from those dwarves he’d spoken to already) and seek to return to their fallen home. Of yet there was still a chance to turn the tide before it grew too swift and deep to ford, but the world had not known the might of the dragons, their _true_ force when guided by an evil hand, for at least a thousand years, and even that was only a pale imitation of their once-great power, which had been mostly spent at the ending of the First Age.

Smaug was no Ancalagon, but his fire still burned hot enough to melt stone and metal alike, and to carve swaths of death across the land if he were roused from his slumber. If they were lucky, the beast would sleep until his dying day, but alas; Thranduil knew well not to trust to such things as _luck_. If the dwarves had seen and read the portents, then others would have as well. The greed of men was nearly a match for that of Aulë’s people, as was their recklessness and disregard for those beyond themselves. For decades fear had been enough to hold back those who would have sought to enter the mountain—now _fate_ , that fickle mistress, had raised a banner high for all to see, and would draw them hence to wake the dragon’s monstrous wrath.

Over and over in his mind he replayed the vision he had seen: that great flaming eye, rushing towards him and to the east along a thread of molten heat, and he could too easily imagine that line reaching all the way to the dreaded mountain… He could not, _would_ not let himself ignore the threat. Let the rest of the world languish in short-sighted hope if that was their choice. He would do what he could to delay the inevitable, at least until his people could be made ready to once again survive a doom that was not of their own making.

Thranduil’s grim thoughts and plans were interrupted then, as a lone scout came forth to bow before his throne. She did not seem harried, nor fearful, which made Thranduil the more curious as to what news she brought. It could not be more orcs, or worse tidings than those already becoming common, so what, then? A low thrum of foreboding resounded through his chest as he sat forward upon his throne, a hand raised to beckon the scout from her bow and to come closer. Step by step the outrunner scaled the steps, and it was as if the sounds of the forest overhead and the echoes about the Halls began to dwindle, until only the sound of her boots boomed in the king’s ears. She held one hand before herself, fingers curled lightly to fist about something she carried, and without thought, without sense to reason why, he found himself reaching out, one hand held palm up to take whatever it may have been from her.

“We found this in the forest, my lord—outside our borders, in the middle of a spider’s den. It seems that the spiders there had all been killed; we found them in pieces, scattered all around the glade.” He felt the mild touch of skin-warmed metal drop into his palm, and nearly flinched to drop it. The too-familiar shape of it, that not even half an Age could have wiped from his fingers sat twisted like a serpent in his hand, the venom of emotion pumped into his blood at the point of contact, to wreck and wrack his heart, and leave it shuddering within the cage of his ribs. “We did not find any… remains, my lord, so we do not think that whomever it belonged to was—”

“ _Na van?_ ” The effort to keep his voice from shaking instead turned his words hard, and as bitterly cold as ice, and for a long moment it seemed his grief must be a palpable thing, for the scout stepped back, cut to stunned silence by the pain of it. For just a moment as she moved, and her hand lid away from his, he saw it—the glitter of gold where it meshed with silver and with mithril—and closed his eyes against the sight of what he held, unwilling or unable to look upon it.

“...To the south, my lord. The span between the Path and the Mountains… Near where we think the dwarves were travelling, before they were recovered.” He barely heard her words; his mind was scattered in a hundred directions at once, and his heart had flooded with sorrow and memory. _It_ **_cannot_ ** _be what I would think it is._ His hand, wrapped about what she had given him, was trembling—but so too it seemed was the rest of him.

He did not register dismissing the scout, sending her from his presence and at speed with but a word, nor did he recall rising and departing from the hall where sat his throne. His passage through the winding tunnels and along the rootways was a blur, and only the curve of the metal now pressing, cutting into his palm for how hard he held it stood out in sharp clarity against the turmoil of his mind. He still had not dared to look upon it, and some distant and aloof part of his mind whispered that it might indeed be other than he thought it was—but where once his frozen heart would have callously agreed, now it was thawed and tender, and it both dared to hope and fear in equal parts, and its voice cried out the louder to smother sense and reason.

Only when the heavy wooden doors of his chambers were shut behind him against intrusion (though he knew none would dare to enter there without his permission, save his son) did he allow himself to look, to see… and felt again the shock of it, for there upon his palm, marred only by faint flecks of forest detritus and webs that clung to it, was a single, slender hairpin. The slim rod of gold had been coiled and bent back into a long shepherd’s crook, where it twined and melded with strands of silver and mithril, set with adamant and edged with leaves of beech and holly. It still bore every imperfection his previous self had wrought upon it in its making, those that his then-young eyes had not yet the subtlety to see. Each mark a memory of a land long gone, and sights now lost to time and the ravages of evil beings. Its four stones still shone with all the brilliance they had been set with, though, and he could not help but drag a thumb along them to feel the facets and smooth planes of them, still the same after six thousand years and more.

It’s match had been laid to rest with the body of his beloved wife, for the dragon’s fire had melted it so thoroughly that there was no separating it from her crown—nor her crown from her head. To hold half of that ancient treasure again, one worked in love by his own hands; to have it return to him _now_ , after so long he’d nearly forgotten it, in a time of rebounding darkness, and also his own quiet but marvelous new hope…

Like a great ancient tree, hewn at last by the sure strokes of a well-honed axe, he fell. Down onto his knees in ponderous slowness he went, his silver robes pooling around him in a cloud of silk. No sob wracked him, but he felt bowed and bent like he were a man, and not an elf, hobbled by advanced age and unable to hold himself upright. He clutched the hairpin to his chest, hands spasming around it as if he could not hold it tightly enough to convince himself it was real—as if he were seeking to drive the point of it into his own heart, to melt and merge with the blazing mess of gladness and of sorrow within. A soundless cry escaped him as he lingered there, and beyond the room, out the door over the terrace and further still, a swift breeze rose to shake the leaves of the forest’s trees, and give voice where he could not.

And then, so faint that at first he almost couldn’t make it out… another voice lifted, rising and falling in soft tumbling song from across the open balcony. A voice he had never heard before, and yet felt he knew at once and with utter intimacy, that caught his floundering soul and bore it up and aloft, until the storm clouds that shrouded his heart began to give way to the first soft rays of golden sunshine that held each prayer-like note. 

* * *

 

As the moments passed the peace of the little wild-gone garden seemed to soothe the sourceless foreign anguish from Bilba’s heart, and at last her breath grew even, coming slower and easier. She still could not say what had caused the depths of her sudden emotions, but sheltered there beneath the balcony, tucked in her little vine-walled nook away from the wind that had begun to rise and shake the trees, she felt safe, and the gnawing sorrow had at last begun to dwindle at least in part now that the ring was only clutched in her hand, and not upon her finger. She idly massaged at her chest, kneading the space over her heart as if she could press and work away what grief remained, and let her head drop forward until her chin was tucked to her collarbone, and her loosened hair hung about her to match the flowing vines.

 _Deep, calming breaths now my girl. You’re alright._ She could easily imagine that her mother had felt something similar upon her father’s death—a vast sense of loss that never left, but only lessened… though there was something else about it as well, now that she’d calmed enough to turn the feelings over in her mind and begin to sort them. Sweet had come creeping with the bitter, though it had nearly been unnoticed beneath the waves of sadness. Deep, intimate fondness that came rushing up, rushing _back_ from somewhere equally unknowable in the depths of her soul—like an old favorite song that she hadn’t sung in years for the lack of the one it was meant to be sung to, but that finally, _finally_ held only those happy memories along with it, so that it no longer spurred tears just to hear it. Like finding a dusty portrait of someone you had loved and lost, and realizing that enough time had passed to let you see their face without weeping and hiding it away again. A small, wistful smile slowly crept over Bilba’s lips, and the press of her fist to her chest began to slacken. She still did not know what had come over her, or why… but then a thought, a strange, silly thought, struck her as she let that sunset mood wash over her.

The rush of what sadness she had felt had thrummed along the well-worn path of that same vague longing which had wrapped through every fiber of her being since her childhood, swelling and sighing in time with her own heart. Could it be that, somewhere, _someone_ out there was feeling what she felt? Or perhaps _she_ was feeling what _they_ felt? _You always did have just awful timing, Bilba Baggins… but could you imagine?_ It was a stupid thought—surely she was only very tired, and stressed from the burdens upon her shoulders. _You always did have a romantic heart, not at all sensible._ It was as fanciful a flight as ever she’d flown, but it did do to ease her spirit—better to imagine some distant heart had been leashed to hers than to think she was going out of her head, she supposed.

And if that was so, silly a thought as it was, then perhaps she might be able to help ease some of that terrible pain _they_ had felt. If she could feel _their_ sadness… maybe _they_ could feel _her_ happiness. _Oh, you really are going ‘round the bend now, Bilba. Still… it’s not like anyone’s around, I suppose._ She’d heard nothing but the sound of the wind since entering the garden, and even now all but the trees were silent, as if abandoned. Singing a little—still quietly of course—would at least lift her own spirits. It was the only way that her misadventure beneath the Misty Mountains had been better than this skulking through the Elvenking’s Halls: at least there she had been able to sing to keep her heart lifted (though she preferred to ignore that it had been her songs that had led the Gollum thing right to her, in the end).

She still had the ring on hand as well… if anyone came to look through the door or from on the balcony, she could slip it on and hide. _Why not? Just one, to make you_ **_both_ ** _feel a little better…?_ She shook her head, eyes rolling at the game she was letting herself play, and let her breath come slow and even, until she thought that lingering ache beneath her breast would not lead her voice to shake and crack. _Alright, alright…_ She let herself imagine another heart, hurting, but that she maybe could somehow help… And then she put those gentle thoughts into a song, her voice rising softly up into the still-trembling leaves.

 _Smooth the stones under our feet,_  
_Warm each drop of rain on the lines of our cheeks,_  
_Guide us safe under the boughs of the trees_  
_Where the old oaks keep watch past the curve of the creek._  
_Sweeten all we can smell and light what we see,_  
_Like the first falling leaf on the autumn’s soft breeze._  
_Give us the hope that all sorrows will cease  
With this evening song, like the clouds opening._

The lilting song came creeping into the cracks and crevices of Thranduil’s soul, softening each place where memory and grief had threatened to rip open the old wounds and that the return of the hairpin had begun to strain. His heart still raced, but from the center of his being, beneath the storm of conflicting emotions he felt a second pulse begin to pace against his own, drawing it down to eventually match its slower, less frantic rhythm. The edges of resurgent pain he felt began to blur and fade with each note, and deep inside he felt a wash of calm, compassionate solace well up, and burst like a bud into bloom at the point where the line of fate stretched out to join his spirit to another… and grew into an insistent tugging sensation.

_We’ll be there soon_

Bilba’s smile grew as she sang on, the hand not holding the ring lifted to ghost over her curls, gently combing them back from her face again. The ache she’d felt was giving way quickly, and she hoped, if such mythical things as bound souls existed, that whomever she was tied to felt… if not at peace, at least some comfort in knowing that they were not alone with their pain. In truth she probably was doing little more than singing to herself, and looking quite silly for her trouble… but it did no harm to try, did it? It was restful for herself as well, and a diversion from her worries about sneaking and burgling and dwarves and dragons. Whatever her burdens, and whatever those woes were upon whomever—if anyone there really was—was sharing her heart, for just a moment she liked to think they could be set aside.

 _When gray parts into blue_  
_Clear sunlit-sky hues,_  
_And old becomes new,  
Then we’ll wander through_

Thranduil did not loose his grip upon the hairpin as he rose and crossed onto the terrace with silent steps, both entranced and afraid to break the strange spell that had been woven through the air about and through him. The thought that this could be the singing spirit (or as he’d suspected, trespasser) he had heard rumor of drifted through his mind, and the knowledge that it could be dangerous, some trick or trap… but he did not believe it was so. The tugging beneath his sternum, urging him to follow his ears to the source of that fair and soothing song had grown to a near-consuming yearning that bid him, _trust_. Blindly his hands reached for the carved railing, the pin clinking against the stone beneath his palm as he grasped the edge. The song was louder here, though not by much, emanating up from somewhere below, within the gardens… Mindonel’s gardens, where he himself had not had the heart to tread since her passing.

 _The deep forest roads,_  
_To glades yet unknown,_  
_And there we’ll be home.  
Both of us lost in a world of our own._

“I know you’re there… why do you linger out of sight?” Bilba startled at the sudden question from overhead, her song grating to a halt in an instant as she fumbled for the ring. She thrust herself back, further beneath the terrace, and fell from her seat on the bench, hitting the dirt on her hands and knees with a muted thud. “Come out… show yourself.” The silken voice seemed to shudder and almost crack as it called again, and she shivered as she slunk to press herself to the side of the wall where she would be well out of sight even if she were not invisible as well. She clamped her hands over her mouth to smother her gasping breath, though surely, _surely_ whomever they were, they would hear it. And even if they didn’t, and couldn’t see her… there was only one way out of the gardens, and they would undoubtedly see the door swinging open.

Above, Thranduil clung to the railing, feeling the sudden loss of that voice as if it were the blow of a hammer. The silence in its place was cruel, oppressive even, and he called out again in a desperate need to break it. Down he looked, and let his gaze rove across the overgrown oasis his wife had built… and then left for him to neglect. Nothing moved there but the wind, and no song came with it, nor breath or any other sign of anyone having been there at all.

And then, through the silence, his ears caught the faintest sound of a door creaking open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Veil was another name for Menegroth, or at least for the Girdle of Melian, which kept it safe. Melian was King Thingol’s wife, and one of the maiar. All those who attempted to pass through it became enmeshed and wandered aimlessly as if lost in an impossible maze of trees, placing them in a situation where their food would eventually run out and they would die. The Girdle also protected Doriath from the dark influence and prying eyes of Morgoth, similar to the way Galadriel used Nenya to protect Lothlórien from Sauron. Only those permitted by Thingol or Melian, or with power greater than Melian, could successfully navigate through it.
> 
> At the end of the Years of the Trees, and the start of the First Age, while the Ñoldor were still in Valinor and then heading back to Middle Earth, Morgoth had already arrived and gone to Angband where Sauron had been breeding orcs to build an army. Morgoth led the army into Beleriand to begin his conquest on two fronts, one to the west and one to the east. King Thingol led his well-armored Sindar forces to aid King Denethor (no relation to Denethor from LotR) of the Laiquendi (green elves) in the east, but Denethor fell before he arrived. Once there, however, Thingol’s forces utterly defeated the orcs. After seeing how his ally Denethor had been slain, Thingol retreated with all those Sindar (and remaining Laiquendi) elves who wished to live in peace to Doriath, and his wife set her Girdle around the land to shield it. The battle where Thingol and his people fought was known as the First Battle of Beleriand, of the War of the Jewels, and was the only point where the Sindar people were really involved in the war.
> 
> Ancalagon the black, the “rushing jaws”, was the largest dragon to ever soar over Middle Earth. His size isn’t specified, but he was so large that when he was cut down and fell, his body destroyed “the towers of Thangorodrim”—several volcanic peaks.
> 
> The hairpins Thranduil made are meant to be a stylized representation of the River Gelion, in gold, and its tributaries—Ascar, Thalos, Legolin, Brilthor, Duilwen, and Adurant—in alternating silver and mithril. Curving around the ‘crook’ of the Gelion band from the point where each tributary band joins it, the strips of mithril or silver were shaped into beech leaves (which made up the main of the forest of Neldoreth, which was a major part of Doriath), and one large golden holly leaf (as holly trees were the main of the forest of Region, which made up most of Doriath, and the area around Menegroth specifically). The gems used were called ‘adamant’, a mythical stone of impenetrable hardness. It was often referred to with diamond features, and was the type of gem set in the ring Nenya. Thranduil changed the second pin’s bud into a blossom when he first fell in love.
> 
> Thranduil’s name means ‘vigorous spring’, for the record.  
> Ionneg - “my son”  
> Na van? - Combo question, “at where/when?”
> 
> Bilba’s song where Ori hears her is “Song in the Woods” from Fellowship of the Rings. It was sung by Frodo as he and the other hobbits make their way through the Old Forest on the edge of the Shire.
> 
> Bilba’s song in the gardens is something between a parody and a contrafactum of the first verse and chorus of the song “Köln” by Corey Kilgannon—because that’s what I was listening to as I wrote that part, and it seemed easy enough to rework. The original is very lovely too, and deserves much more attention, I think.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely anxiouscrab, Thaliaiwe, & Lumenne, who are honestly a terrific support to me, utterly wonderful, and I could not ask for better pals OR betas!!
> 
> As you may have noticed, the title's been updated! It only took me 17 chapters to decide on one, y'all. There is also now cover art at the start of chapter 1!

**_TA1055_ **

_The enchanted door into the hidden garden hung ajar, and slim rays of copper gloaming light cascaded through the open arch to scatter and dapple against the stone wall opposite it. With the light came song, a voice so fair and sweet to Thranduil’s heart that he fain would weep to hear it. Entranced and savoring the wafting sound, he made no haste in approaching the gate, for he was content to listen for a time, and his steps kept silent to not disrupt the gentle tune._

_Mi norath annui di Anor_  
_Loth Echuir aen eriar,_  
_Gelaidh tuiar aen, nîn rimmar,  
Filig merin linnar._

_He pressed a palm against the jamb and moved forth only enough to stand beneath the lintel, peering beyond the lip of open stone to gaze into the patch of tamed and tended land, with its edges all wreathed in silver blooms. And kneeling there between them, her hands and mouth both in constant mindful motion as she stroked their leaves and tongued into the air fair notes of song, his Mindonel. She was turned away from him, the tumble of her sunshine hair curling down the curve of her back, each strand glowing to form a halo in the light. A faint splendor caught as well upon the slim circlet’s band she wore, and meshed into star-like fractures above her left ear, where it spilled on leaves of beech and holly. In his eyes each part of her was radiant and glowing; a beacon of goodness and life, which she slowly drew unendingly out from herself and poured upon the ground to nurture it and all who chanced to see or hear, like Laurelin had long ago shed molten rain to pool in vats and clefts within the heart of Valinor._

_She was the jewel of his people and the crown of his heart’s delight—and he knew, as he watched her in contented silence, that he would move the heavens and earth alike to please her and keep her safe by his side. To see her pause, and turn towards him, her hair sent flying and that perfect secret smile hovering in the corners of her lips and behind the stars within her eyes, calling to him in that rare moment of intimate solace, “Thranduil, meleth nîn…!” That was more than he deserved, more joy than he could ever be worthy of. And yet it_ **_was_ ** _his, and he knew (and had always known) that he never could begin to attempt to set aside any of those things his heart was greedy to have._

_He’d always been a proud and selfish thing, after all; so long as she would have him, he knew he would keep her, and do all he might to see her heart full only of song, and not sadness._

* * *

**_TA1226_ **

_Thranduil lingered in the doorway to their garden as oft he’d done before, his eyes near-closed as he strained to hear the gentle words his Mindonel was sweetly whispering to the tiny bundle cradled in her arms. The moon had only just come out, and its silver rays turned all within his narrowed sight to mist, like spirits on the lawn, ethereal and bright. As he watched, his wife swayed side to side with the child in her arms, serene as a sleepy tide, lulling him long after restful dreams had risen to catch and hold him—Legolas, their precious Legolas, whom she could not bear to be parted from, not even for a moment._

_Egor ennas dû alfanui_  
_Brethil lilthol celir_  
_'eil edhellin, silivrin mîr,  
Min finnel în ngylfui._

_A quiet hush fell at last as her song’s verse spun to its end, the final note fading into the growing soft darkness of the little garden. With tender delicacy, so affectionate it seemed almost painful, she bowed her head to press a kiss to the babe’s cheek, her long moon-paled curls slipping to wrap around them like a veil. When she again lifted her face to the light of the moon, it was to find Thranduil had come from where he had lingered watching, and now stood behind and beside her, one hand rising to wrap his arm and the shield of his robe’s sleeve about her more lightly-clad form. A single tear, silver as a star, had beaded upon her lashes, and his own lips found it, kissing it away, be it from sorrow or from joy._

_“I have hoped,” he admitted at length, a breath into his wife’s ear to not rouse their dream-wandering son, “That he will grow to have your voice. It moves me so to hear it, each and every time I do, meleth nîn, and it bids my heart to new fondness and admiration for you. I would have him know the beauty of your songs for all his life, and grow to treasure them as I do you.”_

_It seemed to him that she was ever-humble, casting her eyes down and brushing a feather-like touch to the infant’s face. For all that she still was as demure as always she had been, and sought to hide away her gifts, sparing them only for her husband—and now her child—she did not move nor say to oppose Thranduil, and he was gladdened by it. At length however did she look up at him, and the sheen of some secret sadness left her gaze shimmering and liquid as she spoke. “I would have him know_ **_your_ ** _voice also, my heart… Our sweetest star-bloom would be lucky indeed to know his father’s songs as well, for all that you have never once sung to me.”_

_And that truth did sorrow him, and his hand upon her side gave a comforting and affectionate squeeze, for he had not had the heart in himself for singing for more than an Age. Not since those last days when he had lived in Doriath had his lips known how to issue any songs, save grief-wracked laments and dirges. The sight of such poor yearning desire within her eyes did move him though—for it was not for herself that she sought this boon, but for the son she loved far more than any other within the world, more than life itself—and though he knew not how he could cast off the shackles his loss and pain had long ago forged, he felt himself resolved perhaps to try. For all that he had treasured every note she had sung, felt them rain like mithril and pearls upon his soul, he knew he had done little to return the gift of music to her._

_Now she urged him to sing for their child, if his love for herself alone was not yet enough to stir his heart to voice. He pulled her close, the still-dreaming babe nestled safe and warm between them, as he kissed the tears from her very eyes, his forehead coming to rest against hers and the cloud of their breath mingling around them. “One day, my love; perhaps one day, when we have gone home, and Legolas has seen his grandfather’s towers and halls as they were meant to be for him; one day when the woods are full of light again, I shall.”_

* * *

**_TA 1975_ **

_There was no light within the garden now._

_Where all before had shone with gold and silver, joy and wonder, life and laughter, was now to Thranduil’s eyes gone desolate and black in emptiness. The sun had fled at speed, and the moon was little more than the thinnest sliver, veiled by dark clouds as if in kinship with his grief. A cold, brittle wind rattled through the trees, snatching at the withered leaves there and sending them spinning and whirling to the ground in slanting arcs, to clump and gather, and slowly bury the silver flowers where they grew untended and untouched by any gardener’s hand._

_The magic door behind him was sealed shut tight, left barred in the wake of Legolas’—now an elf fully grown and in the prime of all his passions—wrathful departure. The elven prince’s fury had blazed as hot as dragonfire itself upon his father’s return… his father’s, but not his mother’s. He had wept and raged, and then turned to his lone remaining parent seeking solace._

_“How could this… adar, why would she…”_

_But Thranduil had none of answers nor comfort to give, for he felt he was himself as sundered as that long sea-swallowed land of his childhood. And though his flesh still burned in constant white-hot agony, his heart had gone as cold it seemed as Helcaraxë, and as desolate as the barren Withered Heath where she had breathed her last. Without his bride’s fair gentle light to warm it now, there stirred no feelings in him save those of patient and fatal resolution. Even to look upon his son was to suffer, for he was akin in likeness and in form to Mindonel and to Oropher, and they both were dead and gone from him until the end of time._

_“How could you_ **_let_ ** _her?! Why… why didn't you…?!”_

_His apparent cold aloofness had only spurred his son’s fury to greater heights, and Legolas had turned and fled from him, leaving Thranduil standing as still as carven stone behind. There he remained, staring sightless across the ground where long his wife had walked and danced and sang, to mull and dwell upon every moment he had wasted, each broken and forgotten promise, and the paths that had led him thus to ruin and to heartbreak._

_In time the morning’s dawn broke cold, and still he stood. Day rose and then fell to dusk and darkness and still he stood. Night became day, and day begat night anew, over, and over, and_ **_over_** _, and still he stood, sightless, trapped in the snare his ghosts had set, and memory baited for him. Every moment they had shared beneath the boughs of the willow or nestled between the flowers swam through his mind in those days and nights, each turn of her head or pulse of her throat as she sang—sang only for him, and for their son._

_He had never sung for her, in the end. He recalled with a lance of pain the night when she had asked, when their boy had been but a babe yet in his mother’s arms. He had never sung for either of them. Now she was gone, parted from him by fire and death, and never to return. She was gone, and then at long last he blinked, and realized that Legolas had left as well, and he knew not where he might be._

_Thranduil was alone._

_And it was alone there in the deep icy pit of his despair that at last he raised his own voice in lamentous song, as he had done for the sacking of Menegroth in Ages past, and for the sinking of Beleriand. For Oropher he had had no songs—and in war found no place for them—but for Mindonel, though it was too late, he knew, he would find the tongue for it._

_Si caedon na vethed-e-lend_  
_Nu dhúath dolen nûr,_  
_Athan beraid bain vill a dynd,_  
_Athan ered veraidh._  
_Or 'uruthos bain bâd Anor,_  
_A geil anuir dorthar:_  
_Ú-bedithon i aur gwannen,  
Egor'ni Ngeil navaer._

_She had sung the song oft enough before that never would the words fade from his ears, nor leave his memory. His voice no more was soft and strong, wracked to cracking by the terrible pain within his breast, but he offered up the words to the midnight air as he would a wish. They would not bring her back, he knew—and nothing ever would, save the remaking of the world—but, he hoped in deepest desperation, with the stripes of starlit tear tracks down his face, that somehow she might yet hear them._

* * *

**_TA2941, September 6th_ **

“I know you’re there… why do you linger out of sight?” Thranduil called down into the garden, his silver-blue eyes casting about for any sign of movement, any whisper of a shadow taking flight. “Come out… show yourself.” The thread tangled around his heart was thrumming, taut and tugging; a moment more and it would surely snap. It must do, or else draw him carelessly over the railing, and down to the forest floor below. He strained to catch any sound of breath or movement, any sound at all… and through the silence, his ears caught the faintest whisper of a door creaking open… _behind_ him.

He spun on a heel, Ages of battle-honed reflexes firing without thought. He found his empty hand reached halfway out in an aborted grab at nothing, rather than having dropped to the hilt of his sword as it would normally have done—instead he was grasping for something that was not there. In the state that he was in, full of heightened awareness and a racing heart and mind, it seemed the door opened quite ponderously: swinging so slow as to be nearly still—and when it stood open, there was no one there save Legolas, who stepped through with a look of confusion and concern at his father's briefly stricken expression, and let the door shut quietly behind him.

“Adar… I went to the main hall, but you were not there.” Like a bowstring breaking against the force of its own draw, the spell the song had wove about Thranduil split and sprang apart into pieces, and blinking he found himself in disarray. No unfamiliar sound came from the gardens now, save the sway of leaves and faint call of evening birds—though his heart still labored in his chest, and his breath was not at ease. A glimmer of wildness, of haunted yearning still ran through him like liquid fire, but he fought to tamp it down, draw it in, and bid his face to the mask of certainty and stillness that he was expected to wear.

“I’d thought you wished to speak to me, but the guards said you left after receiving word from one of the outrunners… is something wrong?” Legolas had marked the shift in his father’s expression however, and crossed to stand before him in long swift strides. He was by all appearances comfortably at ease within Thranduil’s chambers, though in truth he had not entered them for some many years. The gauzy hanging curtains that draped about the corners and near the open terrace door rippled with his passing, and the young elf drew up closer to his father than he might have done in public, unable to keep the interest and care from his demeanor.

It was a subtle thing, but it pleased Thranduil all the same—for too long had his son disdained any nearness to him, and found his company a burden to be managed and then shrugged off at the earliest convenience. It gave the Elvenking brief pause to wonder at his strange fortunes of late, both fair and foul, but his quietude did little to reassure the prince, whose frown grew deeper as the silence following his question stretched. Blue eyes at last rose to meet their like in color, if not age, and sought within for any signs that could be read. Of upset or of distress, or the lingering haze that could follow the visions of the elves when they came—and indeed he found faint traces there, though not of what he’d expected.

Pale depths of sadness lurked within his father’s gaze. From behind the scattered starlight-points that reflected in the blue, in constellations that had been formed by time and trial, as well as love, he could see the sorrow lingering. Though stranger still (at least for its newness) was the odd shine of some eager lightness that they hung about. Some glitteringly brilliant emotion that even Legolas, whom of all their people had spent the most time in his father’s presence, could not define. Like a familiar thorn it pricked and snagged and plucked at the back of his mind, stirring the ghosts of memories long forgotten, or else tucked safe away and out of sight for their preciousness—he had seen the like of this mirthful hue before, though when and wherefore escaped him. Something about the sheen or the color, or the movement of the lights within his father’s eyes almost reminded Legolas of when his mother… no. _But… oh._

The young elf blinked, and Thranduil watched as his son’s brows furrowed and then went slack, his concern and worried interest let slip away after some moments’ consideration. It had occurred to Thranduil that the truth would inevitably be clear for all to see within his eyes, or hear in the timbre of his voice—such changes had not come on him yet, he did not think, but could not be sure. Normally there were no signs of attachment until after a pair were wed… but this time things had been different from the start. Perhaps some part of it was clear already? His heart was still a-tumble, and while half of him felt such contented joy in that moment from the still-slowly fading warmth come with that wondrous song that he could feel the words of truth bubbling up from within to ring like bells of gladdest tiding, _I should tell him, tell him now…!_

The other half of the Elvenking, struck with the thought that perhaps Legolas _could_ see something of the truth, _had_ seen it in his father’s eyes, and chosen to ignore it, or reject it in silence…? He still was afraid to break the fragile bond that had begun to regrow between them, and from his joyous urge to speak of his new fate he now recoiled, choking down his words before ever they took flight. The sudden flicker of fear bid him to turn half away again, his eyes cast out over the darkening forest where the truth they held might be less visible, and in so doing he missed how his son marked the swell of worry and sadness as it grew, tamping the warm spark of delight in his expression down to a weak smolder.

“I wish you had the trust in me to speak your mind, father,” Legolas spoke after another moment, and Thranduil could hear the faint exasperation in his son’s voice from over his shoulder. “Yet if you cannot confide in me, that is not my greatest worry. It is _unlike_ you to disdain your plans and councils—even when they must necessitate you dealing with _naugrim_ —and I worry for the change in you.” He could picture how Legolas’ face would pinch, his disfavor of the dwarves (or perhaps of Thranduil himself) showing clearly at the talk of them. And then he heard, quieter, nearly a conspiratorial whisper, “Though I suppose I cannot blame you for retiring from the great hall, _adar_ —their stink still hangs about it, though I know they all have been bathed at least the once since their arrival.”

Thranduil felt a light touch against his elbow—Legolas’ hand, bidding him not to turn away again. “Tell me you are well, father, and I will not trouble you over what you will or can not say again. I only wish to know that you have not _seen_ more, seen something worse; some creeping shade that would haunt you to such distraction.” Legolas was genuine in his concern, and his care—for the potential threat to the kingdom Thranduil may or may not have seen, as well as for his father’s stubborn need for secrecy—was touching. _He really is a son that any father would be proud of. He’s more of his mother about him than of me, and thank the Valar for it…_

“You are right to worry, _ionneg_ , though my _distraction_ is not for that which you fear.” He would tell him, Thranduil resolved, and when he shifted to face him once more, it was with a more open, readable expression than he’d let himself wear before. The faintest echoes of the voice he’d heard still reverberated in his mind, and though he did not yet understand himself all that was happening around or to him, Legolas deserved to know. For the sake of his future as the prince of the realm, and at the very least for the love Thranduil still and eternally would have for him, he deserved to know. Perhaps he would despise his father for it, but perhaps he would not, and if he did… well. They had already begun to reforge their relationship anew _once_ , hadn’t they?

Legolas looked askance at his father now, his pleasure to at last have an explanation at hand finding itself at war with his displeased concern that there would indeed be something important enough (beyond the state of the darkness creeping upon their land) that could so fixate his king. At a gesture from Thranduil they both moved back into his chambers from the terrace, letting the gauzy curtains drift and waft behind them. Legolas trailed along like a seabird in a ship’s wake as his father angled towards a small table, circled by chairs where none had sat in centuries—quite long indeed had the Elvenking kept contentedly to his isolation. Another gesture bid his son to sit, though Legolas was slow to do so, and in the end they neither of them did, and only stood around it, both of them hovering in nervousness although for different reasons.

“Something _has_ happened then, _adar_?” Thranduil felt almost ashamed at the near-tentative manner in which his son now ventured to ask. He should have told him long ago, and spared him this upset. “I thought that perhaps I had only imagined it, after… the pass of many years apart from you.” He could only nod in response to his son’s question, a subtle tuck of his chin and lidding of his eyes enough to convey concurrence. It made sense, as they both had grown different as well as apart over the last centuries, and only recently turned back towards each other. Legolas seemed to grow almost aggressively alert, fixed upon and waiting for his father’s next words to clarify what he meant. “Is it because of the dwarves, or what they plan?” He could almost see his son’s thoughts leap from thought to thought, a conclusion forming rapidly… if in error.

“What could they… _No_. _Adar_ , is it the dragon they mean to rouse?” Now the spark of interest in Legolas’ eyes had caught like tinder, blazing into a black fury that took Thranduil by surprise with its intensity as it shuddered through his son’s blood. “They will bring destruction upon us all if _that_ is Oakenshield’s design! And you have only made them captive guests rather than lock them fully away? Such _foolish_ intentions, that would risk the lives of his kin as well as those of others—a fitting level for _dwarves_ to sink so lowly to!”

A flicker of movement caught Thranduil’s eye, and he looked down to watch how Legolas had taken the hilt of his sword—the same one he had claimed from the dwarven would-be-king—in a ready grip, his anger spurring him to the edge of action. While Thranduil could not blame his child for his fearful fury, nor his intense distaste for the dwarven folk, it ate at him to see such dark hatred hardening his son’s face. They did not need to kill the dwarves, after all—they only had to wait, and watch, and endure.

“That threat has been handled, Legolas,” he affirmed, a faint thread of warning command in his tone to forestall any rash actions his son might take, for all that he felt some compassionate understanding. Without thought the Elvenking unwound his hand from about the pin which he still held, and as he passed around the table to take a firm but gentle hold of his son’s shoulders, slipped it into the sleeve of his robe. He was not so sentimental a fool as some might think him—what power held golden trinkets over him when his own flesh and blood was hurting there before him? A great deal, in truth… and once he never would have had the might to relinquish it. He had not been that elf for half a century however, and his son needed his guidance… and truthfulness. “That is not what I would speak to you about, _ionneg_. _Îdh_. We have the dwarves, and I will let no harm come to you _or_ our people at the teeth and fire of a dragon. Not again, I do promise you this.”

* * *

Bilba huddled in the gloom beneath the terrace and its vines, her fists mashed against her mouth to muffle her breathing. Her sharp eyes caught where the half-circle shadow of the balcony was broken by some elf’s (King Thranduil’s, her subconscious mind so helpfully identified, having recognized his voice with an almost unnatural ease) silhouette, no doubt having been drawn closer by her song and now looking for whatever interloper he thought he’d overheard. Oh, she was a _fool_ of a hobbit, such a _fool_ ! _You’re going to get yourself caught for your silliness, and won’t the dwarves just love that? Their quest ruined because of the, the ridiculous, romantic, elf-fancying notions you can’t keep from slipping through your head and from your lips!_

The ring had slipped from her grasp when she’d lurched off her seat, and though she could see it glinting wickedly from the leaf litter within reach, she did not dare to move to grab for it. Its alluring glitter called to her, and the vicious need to take it, clutch it, keep it fluttered against her self-control. An elf could hear a feather fall at a hundred yards, she was sure, and a _king_ of elves must have hearing even sharper—and would no doubt catch the sound of the leaves shifting if she moved to take it. Only his own voice calling out had covered the soft thump of her hitting the ground, and that’d been the last of her luck. Now she was stranded, openly visible, and certainly, she could grab for the ring and pop it on before he could swoop down like a striking falcon after her, but then she would be _trapped_ , with him between her and the door, which he would see opening with ample time to keep her from escaping. And if she tried to flee into the forest beyond the garden, _well_! The spiders or the orcs or, or the elven scouts themselves would have her, no doubt, and not to mention she’d only have to find a way back into the Elven Halls again to free the dwarves!

She had just become truly resolved to the idea of cowering in the dirt all night when a second voice came wafting from overhead, and the shadow of Thranduil that she could still see shifted, and then vanished from the lip of the balcony. _Oh thank the Valar…!_ She did not waste time, and wriggled closer to the fallen ring, sliding painfully slowly towards it and only in bursts of movement to match the footsteps she could hear above. Voices too, or one at least—she did not hear Thranduil’s low tones now, but she told herself she did not care to miss them. One brief rise in volume from the speaker, whomever it was, was all it took, and in a flash her nimble fingers scooped the ring from its place, leaving the leaves that had cradled it only barely rustled behind. A rush of relief washed over her like a wave to just hold it again—now she could hide, be _safe—_ and she clutched it to herself tightly, hands shaking as she turned it this way and that, though she knew it could not be damaged from so slight a fall.

Indeed, it was as it had been before, and the sight of its flawless band held her for a moment… and a moment more than she should have spent, she realized after a beat when the sounds of the conversation broke back into her awareness, and she slipped the ring onto her finger with a shudder. _Bilba, you are a fool for humming when you should be hiding, and a fool over again to just sit about like you’re on picnic when the chance to escape’s at hand!_ She chided herself for the lost time—who knew how long the pair of elves would be at their talking, and now was her opportunity to make for the door and slip through! Thankfully she could still hear at least one of them speaking, though it was strangely washed out in sound, and echoed oddly amid the constant whorl of the ring-world. No matter… there was no sign of any silhouette that had returned to the edge of the balcony either, though the curve of the shadow itself twisted and danced, merging and moving like sand being blown about. She gathered her feet beneath herself, took a breath, If she could just make a quick run for it…!

“They will bring destruction upon us all if _that_ is Oakenshield’s design!”

She’d been halfway to the stone arch that marked where the enchanted door stood when an outburst came thundering through the windy haze into her ears, to snap her head back around, and her eyes up to the yawning dark mouth of the balcony’s empty, open doorway. _Thorin… they’re talking about Thorin!_ She’d been unable to find the dwarven leader, for all that she’d looked high and low—but of course it made sense that the Elvenking would keep him hidden away, where only a few knew to find him. The fact that they were talking about him when she had seen not a hair of him in the last week… _They must be interrogating him wherever they have him, and not in the Great Hall!_ It would be very unlikely for her to find him if that was true, and Thranduil’s Halls sprawled too vast and far to make checking each and every room and door an option. But… if they _were_ attempting to question him… then sooner or later, she realized, if she were to lurk close enough, they would lead her to him. Or else if she could listen in, perhaps they would say enough to give her some hint or clue to finding him.

She hesitated for a moment as she considered her options, crouched unseen midway across the garden. She was too far now to hear what quieter words the elves shared, so she would have to move closer if she hoped to hear, maybe even climb up to the balcony… But then, this might well be her best chance to flee, and run no risk of being caught. Aside from continually checking more and more rooms, she had no better plan than to stalk and eavesdrop upon the Elvenking, and that would only put her back in danger. And they were talking about Thorin _now_ , and might not be later… _There’s really no other way about it, I suppose, is there? Well, Bilba… if you can face down an orc, and mean to burgle a dragon… I imagine you can climb a tangle of vines and spy on an elf or two, can’t you? At least if you get caught, no one can say you didn’t try._

Some moments later, as she was hauling herself hand over hand up the curtain of interwoven vines and with the voices slowly growing clearer and louder, she wondered if she truly had made the right choice. This was not at all within the purview of her contract, and had been about as far from her imaginings of the tasks she’d find herself undertaking along the way as anything. For one outstanding moment she wondered what her old neighbors back in Hobbiton would have thought of the sight of her, clung like a perching bird halfway up a swath of creepers, swinging like a faunt from some tree’s branch on her way to pick apples… She must look utterly ridiculous. Or would, maybe, if not for the ring, and she really _was_ as glad as she’d ever been to be invisible.

She shimmied the rest of the way to the lip of the terrace without delay and levered herself up onto the stone, rolling silently onto her side and quickly casting about to find—there. The two elves weren’t hard to miss, and would not have been even if they weren’t the only other beings in the room; they were speaking quite intently, and of the Company and the dragon as well.

“We have the dwarves, and I will let no harm come to you _or_ our people at the teeth and fire of a dragon. Not again, I do promise you this.” She could hear Thranduil now, his low voice stern and solemn, but soothing in its velvet tones as he comforted the other elf, whom she recognized now that she could make out his face. Legolas, she’d heard him called, and he’d been among those who’d captured the dwarves out in the forest. She’d thought him some captain of the scouts at first, though her days sulking about the halls had revealed him to be a prince instead. Now with him standing beside his father, the family resemblance was strong: the utter confidence of their tall figures, their straight hair like spun gold (though the elder elf’s was paler), faces that were so handsome as to be beautiful, and clever, calculating, watchful blue eyes beneath dark, emphatic brows—which she saw shoot up in surprise upon the son’s face, and then drop, furrowing in some displeasure as he shook his head but slightly.

“You know they will attempt to escape, _adar_. The line of Durin will not be the only one to think to reclaim the mountain as well. The men of Laketown remember the dragon’s wrath and will be cautious, but those further afield will not recall it, and should they think the time is right…” At that Thranduil agreed, grim knowledge on his face, “Indeed.”

Bilba kept pressed low to the stone, creeping and crawling in a slow circuitous path across the balcony and to the doorway as he spoke. She ducked behind the hanging sheath of the gossamer curtains to one side, freezing as they fluttered slightly at her passing, and both elves paused to glance her way, their near-matching eyes roving the open space for anything amiss. Thranduil seemed to shine faintly even through the hazy world of the ring, and she shivered (only in fearful alarm, she told herself as firmly as she could) as his steely gaze seemed to pass right over her, leaving all her hair standing on end. Even wind-whorled like everything else in that version of the world, he seemed to draw her in somewhat, faint whispers of desire and the will to win and catch and _keep_ him playing about in the back of her mind, and she sagged in relief when at last he turned away to his son and spared her his magnetic glance, and the tempting whispers quieted.

“Several of the _naugrim_ have spoken of prophecy, and omens. A suspicious and superstitious people, if ever there were one; I am sure that others of their kind will have thought the same, and be turning in interest to regard the mountain. Already our warriors have their hands full with fending off the threats from the south—still, we must make ready, and be ever watchful should more of their kind appear to attempt this fool’s mission.”

The grimness of Thranduil’s words was not lost on Bilba, and she tucked herself a bit tighter into a ball as she sat and listened. It was a very good point, really—if the dragon _was_ alive, and honestly they’d no reason to think it wasn’t, as much as she might hope so, then rousing it would endanger any number of souls, not just the Company. She thought she could recall Glóin saying others would have seen the signs as well, a lifetime ago in Bag End, and the thought that they might be racing other parties as well as time was intimidating.

Still, none of the men on the lake nor the elves of the forest had agreed to risk their lives and livelihoods for their quest, and that was very probably going to be part of the cost, even if they did arrive swiftly and the first of all… But neither did denying the dwarves a chance to reclaim their home seem right either, especially knowing how far they’d fallen from their fortunes of old. Either way seemed apt to doom someone, as unfair as it was.

“I have heard from the guards that the silver-bearded one is hopeful that Oakenshield will offer to make a deal with you, _adar_.” Now _that_ nearly made Bilba snort to imagine. No, Thorin was far more likely to tell the Elvenking to go jump off a bridge than make a bargain. _Or something far more foul, probably, if I’m honest with myself._  He’d already been nothing but abrasive to Lord Elrond, and in Rivendell they’d been guests and not prisoners to begin with. “An attempt to have us aid them against the dragon, as if we would spend elvish blood for any gold or promises they might be able to offer.” Legolas scowled at the thought, and it struck Bilba as strange to see the bitterness so obvious in an elf’s face. He clearly had little love for dwarves, or perhaps none for dragons, but more: the very idea that Thorin might think to try to buy their assistance seemed to grate upon the elven prince for some unknown reason.

“He has not,” Thranduil confirmed after a moment. “For all that his companions may _wish_ he would, their ‘King Under the Mountain’ remains as stubbornly offensive as his grandfather before him. And _like_ his grandfather before him, he knows that there is only one treasure beneath the mountain that would move my heart to consideration…” Legolas’ expression wilted at that thought, into a look of disbelief mingled with disapproval, and at the sight of it Thranduil shook his head, and pressed on with as much haste as an elf was ever wont to employ. “Even then, I would not risk the dragon’s fire, _ionneg_.” He seemed to pull something from his sleeve, turning it in his hands as he spoke, though from the angle she was at, Bilba could not make out what it was. “The heirlooms of our kind are precious, and they carry many memories… but they are not worth the lives of our _people_. There is no trinket of any material, from the metals of the deep earth, to gems filled with the light of the Trees themselves, that are worth the loss of a single Eldar life. Enough of our blood has been shed for such things over the years; you need not worry that I might accept.”

From where she crouched, Bilba could not see the confusion and wonder that came over Legolas at the sight of what his father held, nor could she know the depths of sadness with which Thranduil at that moment reflected. There had been a time, of course, and not terribly long ago at all, that he would have raged and burned and clutched at those treasures within the mountain that he yet called and thought of as his own—when a colder version of himself, more selfish and bitter, who had forgotten the gentling warmth of love and recalled only the icy shadow its loss left behind, would have contentedly gone to war for a single necklace. But that Thranduil had been banished, thawed, and was never to be and no more, and he had recalled that his departed wife had left him a son as well as starlight gems, and he knew well which she would have had him value more.

“Where did you find this, _adar_?” Legolas’ hand moved forward of its own accord, and with only the briefest hesitation Thranduil gave over the pin, though his eyes did not depart from it as his son turned it on his palm and wondered at it.

“It is part of why I wished to speak to you. That… is what the outrunner brought to me today.” His son looked up in askance at him as he dragged his fingers along the curving bend of the metal, though his gaze was distant, half-dreaming and tear-hazed. “It is not the same one she wore—look closely, _ionneg_ , see? Your mother’s bore here… the flower of my love for her upon its boughs, ever-blooming. And this one…” He reached out, not to take the pin back, but simply to turn it, facing the four gems lodged into the leaves of it upwards, and attentively swiped away the lingering flecks of forest floor detritus and webbing that still clung to it. “...was lost to me over six thousand years ago. When I was even younger than you are now, and very far from here. In a land and time before even your grandfather’s kingdom.” It was nothing short of a miracle that the item, so very long-lost, would find its way once more into the hand of its creator. A miracle… and perhaps an omen, Thranduil reflected, recalling another _precious_ golden trinket that had been lost, but come to prey upon his thoughts of late.

But such somber notions were not for this moment, already growing so heavy with emotion and wonder. “The outrunner found it in the forest. In the same spider’s nest where you found the _dwarves_.”

Legolas looked up sharply at that, his eyes narrowing with rapid thought, and on its heels fresh anger. “You think one of _them_ dropped it? That they would lay claim to another of our treasures, of _mother’s_ heirlooms?” The strength of Legolas’ ire surprised Bilba, who still could not see what it was they held, but could not imagine why anyone would be so cruel as to steal away a family’s mementos—and similarly could not imagine the dwarves doing so, at least if they had known what it was they carried. The younger elf’s hand fisted about the slender rod of it, and then (with more gentleness than was to be expected with himself so furious) set it back upon the table, spinning away on a heel to pace across the room, one hand again upon the hilt of Orcrist and his body tense to spring. “They trespass, they steal from us, they would see us all burn to ashes if it gave them their mountain back…!”

Thranduil himself only shifted where he stood to gaze down upon the table and at what it held. Something in the back of his mind said that all was not as it seemed, and it left him hesitant to pass too swift a judgement. It was somewhat too coincidental, wasn’t it? Or perhaps it only seemed that way because it was his wish that it would be so. Mysteries upon mysteries within his halls of late…

Though Bilba feared to risk the elf prince’s wrath even more now that it had been sparked anew, she could not deny the pull of her curiosity. She did not for the most think ill of the Company, and could not imagine they would steal such riches as had been claimed—except perhaps Nori, but even the thief had some honor, and while his pack had ended up filled with candlesticks and spoons from Rivendell, he’d never been the sort to take _heirlooms_ , had he? Never anything that would really be _missed_ , or that _meant_ anything… right? She shook the thought from her head—these were her _friends!_ —as she crept from the tangle of the curtains, moving only very slowly until she was free of them and not apt to shift them again in her wake.

Her eyes trailed up the leg of the table as she drew closer, to its top and then the cloth-of-silver robes beyond, and she hesitated at both the nearness of the Elvenking and the look upon his face. Such tender fondness and quiet remembrance as he wore transfixed her, and slowed her steps to stopping, leaving her standing still and staring, frozen, for all that she was mere feet from being caught, invisibility or no. His blue eyes had gone soft with tenderness, and she could see the slow shift and flex of his arms and chest beneath his robes and he breathed, even that simple movement full of ancient grace. His eyes slid along whatever it was that lay upon the table, whatever he’d been brought… She’d seen… she could swear she’d seen that look before, that exact face within her mind’s eye. Hadn’t she? A look of such love and loss, but with some quiet spark of hope peeking through subtly from behind to light it from within…?

“Why would _they_ have it? And why are you not demanding they be brought forth to answer for this theft?” Legolas’ voice jolted them both from their mental wanderings, and Bilba quickly ducked beneath the table, shrinking into its shadow as Thranduil turned, the soft rustle of his robes reaching her ears as he frowned at his son’s aggression. “First mother’s gems, which they lost with the rest of their ill-gotten gains to the dragon, and now they trespass upon our lands, bringing spiders and orcs behind them, and meaning to _wake_ the beast? All the while carrying heirlooms made by our people, made by _your_ hands, _adar!_ ”

With quick steps Legolas crossed to his father, reaching out and grabbing up the pin, holding it between them emphatically. Beneath the table, Bilba shoved a fist against her mouth to keep from gasping aloud as her eyes caught and recognized the curling bands of gold and silver and mithril—her hairpin! The shock of it not being lost was only secondary to the fact that apparently it belonged to—and had been made by—elves, as she and her parents had suspected, but more, _these_ elves. By _King Thranduil_ himself! “We find stolen silver in their packs,” Aha, so Nori’s collection of odds and ends from Rivendell _had_ been turned out, it seemed… She fought to move past her surprise, focus on what was being said, though she could not tear her eyes from the golden glint in Legolas’ hand. “And the blades of our kin in their belts!” Legolas tugged at Orcrist’s hilt, the blade hissing in its sheath as he spoke. Bilba knew the truth of that item’s discovery, but of course was in no position to gainsay the furious prince… and she could admit that, given the circumstances, it did not aid so much as hinder the dwarves’ case in the moment.

“ _Adar_ , do you truly not care that they would rob us of our culture as well as our lives? That they would sneak and steal to fund their blind ambitions?” The spark of anger had grown to a blaze now in the elf prince’s eyes and he all but thrust the pin back at his father. “I should not be surprised. When Thrór took mother’s gems as tribute and you did _nothing_ , I should have known. You will save us in body, but not in spirit, _adar_ ; why did you not force their king’s hand? Why? Did you care so little for her memory then as you do now, that you would let them do as they like, _take_ what they like from us? Did you ever love her, ever at all, _adar_ ? Ever _truly_ love her, or was it your pride that was the greater loss when Thrór stole her memory away?”

The young elf’s words fell like hammer blows, and though they were not meant for her, Bilba felt them all the same: hot and sharp with intent to wound, striking somewhere near the heart. One hand fisted about the table’s leg, and she sucked a silent breath as Thranduil seemed to wilt beneath his son’s glare, and sank slowly into one of the chairs, his eyes cast down and back across years of memory.

“...Of course I loved her.” Thranduil’s voice was quiet now when he did speak, and full of an aged tiredness that Bilba had not heard there before.

“Then why would you not—” A raised hand was enough to silence Legolas’ demanding query, though the young elf still seemed livid, fit to lash out again with word or blade.

“For a long time,” Thranduil eventually continued, the words drifting as if from far away or long ago. Bilba could not see it, the way his eyes grew distant with recollection, but she hung on every word, some deep part of herself aching with a shared pain, and great sorrow for what tragedy must have befallen the great Elvenking. “A very long time… I could not bear to even _think_ of her. To recall just her name threatened to undo me.” She could only imagine how painful the loss had been—for an elf, who could live forever, and were meant to _have_ forever with the one they loved… Bilba grimaced, the hand not clutching at the table’s leg massaging at her chest against the swelling ache there. “You look so very like her, _ionneg_ … you have her eyes, her hair, her smile… I know it must have hurt you, that I chose to turn away from you and your pain, but in those years I felt as if the very ice of Helcaraxë was upon my heart, and it was brittle, and I was full of fear of that lingering darkness in the world. And with the war still fresh, the fall of those kingdoms of men and dwarves, the danger from all sides… You must understand, Legolas—our people had suffered long, and were not safe. They could not shoulder yet another loss, and already their queen was gone… and I felt, then, that even to look upon those parts of her that lingered in your face would destroy me, when they needed me most.” Thranduil’s hand rose to cup his son’s chin, one thumb swiping along the line of his cheekbone beneath his summer-sky blue eye.

“You ask why I did not demand the gems from Thrór when the dwarves of Erebor withheld them. It is because, my son, the madness of that line was even then apparent. _War_ would have come to our people for the sake of those gems,” He let the weight of that statement hang a moment. Their people were loyal and devoted, and would have fought and died if their king bid them do so… but they were not the ones who had been stolen from, and while Thranduil had greatly desired to have again his wife’s treasures, it was not a fair thing to ask of them. “I had already lost your mother. I could not bear to lose more of my people, lose _you_ , for simple gems. I would not let my greed grow to match that of the _naugrim_.” He withdrew his hand, letting it settle over his heart in a gesture that could serve as a dismissal, if Legolas sought one and felt it needed to excuse him. “Hate me, if you will, and depart from me, but I cannot regret my choices, for all that you have had to pay the price of pain for them.” The veil of memory drew slowly back from Thranduil’s eyes as he lifted them to meet his son’s—which had softened at last with understanding, though the hard lines of past hurts were not all wiped from his face.

Yet Legolas did not depart, and at length seemed to gather his own thoughts to reply. There was still a strength of grief in his voice, but much of the anger he had carried seemed to have bled away with understanding, and his father’s admission of guilt. “For many years, _adar_ , I hoped that you would fade,” He admitted, and it was to Thranduil’s credit that he did not look away, and accepted the truth of his son’s statement for what it was, and with understanding. “I did not _hate_ you, but I did not understand. I thought, surely, if you loved _emel_ , then you would… you would desire to be with her. That you would not suffer to be parted from her, even if that meant leaving here, leaving _me_.” His frown deepened, and without hesitation Thranduil took his son’s hands, offering a small line of contact and comfort. “And then you left me anyway, and you did not fade, and you did not go into the West. And I did not see, could not understand, _adar_ , that you could have loved her and yet lived without her for so long. That in staying, in carrying on _alone_ , you were trying to put our _people_ first…” His strong, slender fingers clenched around his father’s, and Thranduil felt again how lucky and unworthy he was to have a son with such a depth of forgiveness in him, and understanding. “You have suffered, _adar_ , for her loss. But I know that one day you and she will be together again—once you are ready, and venture across the sea to meet her. I was skeptical at first, when I saw your spirits lift of late, but now I understand; it is as you have said, _adar_ , ‘we endure.’ It heartens me now, to see you smile again, and I know that when we are united in Valinor, she will be as proud of you as I have become.”

But Thranduil only shook his head, and from where she sat Bilba sat listening, she felt her heart sink. She already regretted the choice to climb up onto the balcony, for this was not what she had hoped to overhear. She was both an eavesdropper and an intruder onto an intimate moment, and now yet more confusingly to her she felt a twinge of deep finality strike her—even as the Elvenking took a deep breath to speak she felt that she knew what he would say, and could already feel her tears brimming, heavy and wet on his behalf. “ _Û, nae._ Never again will I be so blessed as to see her, or hold her in my arms. Legolas, I _am_ sorry… but she is lost to me… to _us_ , forever, even unto the ending of the world.”

In a flash in Bilba’s mind’s eye, she saw the fire again, the ash-scaled beast bearing down upon her. The gaping jaws, the molten light from deep within the throat, the sense of desperate fear, and a moment later the mind-bending pain of the flames as they washed over her, wracking her body with so much pain that all she wanted was for it to end; to end, and never again chance to return to her again, to end even at the cost of all other sensations, to give up cool rain, and soft breezes, and her beloved’s gentle kindling touches forever if only the pain would _stop_. It was there and gone, so fast and consuming that she did not have time to process it or scream, and simply shuddered instead as she slumped against the table’s leg, dazed but still sensate in the wake of that strange half-imagined, half-remembered death.

The twinge of her disorientation filtered through the bond to Thranduil as she lingered in that state of half-awareness, and stirred him from his melancholy, prompted him to carry on. There was more to this revelation than only sadness, after all, and though his heart still mourned for Mindonel, and ached to know she was gone forever, there was nothing either he or his son could do to change her fate, nor their own, whatever those might be. He gave his son’s trembling hands another squeeze, and met his eyes with a bravery he did not feel. The truth must be told. “Your mother loved you, Legolas,” he intoned. “Never think that she did not, though never again will she come among us, not here nor upon the farthest Western shore. She loved you more than anything; more than _life_. However…” He steeled himself now, for Legolas had not been present upon that fateful day, and Thranduil had been content to let his son remain ignorant of the manner of his mother’s passing until now. He had learned, at the cost of years they could have had together, the price of that blissful ignorance. _The truth must be told_ , he reminded himself, and then continued.

“The dragon’s fire burned her, in body and soul. The foulest of their Morgoth-given tricks, its flame was so hot that it burned her _fëa_ , and darkened it, and fed upon it, draining her strength beyond what healing could be found in Middle Earth. She suffered greatly, and… and when she asked of me that I release her, so that even beyond Mandos’ halls she might never need to fear such pain again? I would have done anything to spare her more suffering, _ionneg_ , you must understand. I would have carried it myself _forever_ if I thought it would have lessened it for her for even a _moment_.” Heartache creased his brows, and he raised his son’s hand, which he still held, to rest against his forehead in a gesture of great sadness and shame. “I… knew that it would take her from you as well, but I could not bear to bid her remain. Forgive me, Legolas; I let her go.”

Legolas did not respond to his admission, but neither did he pull away. When at last Thranduil found the strength to look up and meet his eyes, it was to a sheen of tears, streaked down to drip from his child’s chin onto his tunic and leather armor in silence. Guilt anew assaulted his heart, but he dared not move, neither able to release nor further comfort his son, too long departed from the role of parent to know what the prince would tolerate, or take offense to. That he had had to hurt his son, had ripped open those old wounds, and salted them for good measure in the process, it ate at him—but now at least Legolas knew more of the truth of what had happened.

And thankfully his son was made of stronger stuff than most, and though a new light of loss glowed dimly in his eyes, they soon did cease their weeping, and with a long breath he seemed to settle with the notion inside himself, though perhaps it was only for now, until he could more fully process it later on his own. “I do not… _blame_ you, _adar_.” His voice was soft, weak with emotion when it came, but Thranduil could hear no lie within his words. “It is unfair, this fate, but more so for you than I. She was my mother, that is true, and I loved her… but she was your heart, bound to you… I do not think I could carry on if I lost that one most dear to me.” Now Legolas as well lowered himself into a chair, seeming to sag and bend as if greatly aged, if only for a moment.

“I have judged you, thought ill of you for abandoning me when it is I who have abandoned you, _adar_. You have suffered this weight alone ever since, and I have added to your grief in casting blame like stones upon you.” The elf prince flinched, and each moment he had chosen to deny his father his presence, or been short with him, or cold, came now to mind. “I have hurt you, _adar_ ; _goheno nin_.”

Again Thranduil lightly squeezed his son’s hands, a weak smile managing to turn his lips. “It is not your fault, _ionneg_ , and I will not have you carry the weight of my own choices. It is for a father, not a son, to shoulder such things, and I have gladly done so to spare you the burden of them. Until now.” With slow, gentle movements he shifted, bringing forth again the hairpin, and taking it between his own palm and Legolas’, so that the golden curve of it rose above where their hands met. “There is yet more I would say, though my heart trembles and hesitates to speak it to you.”

“Please, _adar_ , tell me. Have I not bid you place your trust in me before? Though you would release me from my guilt, it is of my own heart’s making, and I would listen now, to lighten both our burdens.” The younger elf gripped his hands back, his eyes trailing along the leaves of the glittering pin and then back to his father’s pale blue gaze, still shining with tears yet unshed, and that strange glow of lightness he had marked there before.

Beneath the table, Bilba felt the haze of her struck mind begin to peel back, and a subtle, buoying joy began to to spread throughout her limbs from near the heart of her, a fondness that was both familiar and other warming her as she blinked the last of the dream-like memories away. Thranduil’s eyes held his son’s for a long moment, and then dropped to card over the hairpin they held. He could not deny what was happening, had happened to him. He had known the truth for near to fifty years, for all the he had denied it for decades before at last accepting it. “It seems that I have _not_ been alone—not these last years, at least. It is a strange doom that winds about me, and not the one I would have wished.”

Legolas’ jaw flexed, his mouth opening to speak, to ask, but Thranduil went on, wishing now only to have all said and in the open that he had once begun to reveal. “Such _gifts_ of the Valar are rare as to be unheard of among our people. Men may remarry as many times as they wish, for their souls are slow to bond, and strange and mutable even then. The _naugrim_ , for all their shortcomings, are loyal unto death, should they chance to find themselves joined to another, though some may seek companionship of a sort in the years following a spouse’s death. The Eldar do not need to be told the ways in which their hearts bond, for they are immutable, and a natural part of who we are, and none among us could go against them, even if they desired to do so.”

“But _once_ , _ionneg_ , once in all of time since the Awakening of our people, has an elf found themselves sundered from their spouse, and in death that spouse refused to ever again walk, in this world or the next, within a physical form. And so that the elf would not be cursed to be alone, for such fates as separation unending were not planned for the Eldar, and not a part of the laws set down for them, the Valar themselves set upon him a new doom…” It was strange to consider again the rare oddity of his condition, Thranduil found. Change came slow to the Eldar, but he had found some peace in his fate, and of late especially a sort of anchoring strength, to shore him up against the encroaching darkness.

“I find myself, though I did not expect nor wish to be, subject to that same doom even now.” The hand that was not clasped palm to palm with his son’s lifted, and ghosted over his breast as if to pluck at the faint thrumming that was housed beneath it; beneath the table, Bilba only just held back a gasp from escaping, as the faint string stretching from behind her sternum flexed, and then pulsed, humming merrily at the same moment. Legolas’ breath hitched as well, his eyes widening and following the movement of his father’s hand, and then up to the lights reflecting warmly in his eyes. Thranduil could almost see the signs coming together for his son, and he felt a slight curl of regret—they had only again begun to grow close, and now he braced for the rejection that surely must follow.

But to his surprise and plain delight, Legolas only gripped his hand the harder, pulling slightly to draw his father closer; first to more closely inspect what he had thought he’d seen within his eyes, and then to take him into an embrace, his tears falling anew to wet his father’s hair. “This… _adar_ , this is a great blessing!” When he pulled away again, there was none of the anger or betrayal Thranduil had expected in his son’s mein. Sorrow there was, and loss, but none of the judgement or denial he had so long feared to see there. The elf prince laughed aloud at the look of wonder on his father’s face then, and through his tears broke into a smile. “ _Adar_ , you could not think that I would wish you to suffer alone. Even if we never spoke again, and could not bear the sight of each other; even if we had carried on as we had done before these last fifty years, I would not wish that fate upon you.” His smile sobered somewhat, but did not wane in its genuine nature. “That was when you felt it, isn’t it? When the forest began to recover, and regrow? I can see it now, the way the fire shines differently in your eyes… I wonder that I did not realize it sooner.”

At that Thranduil could only tip his head slightly, the faintest of contrite tucks of the chin, for he had hidden it as well as he could and for as long as he deemed it wise to. “I did not wish it to be so. For many years I strove to ignore the idea that any might be fit to match my heart but her… it felt like I was betraying her memory, to accept it gladly, or even willingly. Only at length did I realize that I cannot bear the thought of rejecting it. Though I do not know who lies at the other end of my soul, I have come to know _of_ them, and already they grow dear to me… I promise you, _ionneg_ , that my care for them will not supplant that for your mother within my heart.” And Legolas nodded, solemn (though only briefly so) at the weight of meaning in his father’s pledge. “They are alike, I believe, though I do not know how it is that I know it…”

From her hidden seat nearby, Bilba considered the Elvenking’s words and kneaded at the spot behind her ribs that had begun to ache so very sweetly. _You ought to have left when they stopped talking about Thorin, foolish thing._ She could not deny her interest, but neither could she excuse her fancy. _It’s a silly idea, and you know you’re only imagining it could be you because you spent too much of your childhood reading romantic books._ The idea that perhaps she might be the one the Elvenking was meant for had come upon her with swift surety that had surprised her, but she knew that simply couldn’t be. Hobbits, even strange-looking ones, didn’t run off and fall in love with elves, and least of all elf kings, after all… did they?

The sound of Legolas’ voice, ringing out in faint joyful laughter at something Thranduil had said stole the breath from her, and faint memories— _Not my own memories, just more of those strange daydreams!_ —came floating up to swirl in her mind’s eye. Visions of a younger elf, not yet fully grown, with the same smile and the same blond hair as the prince had, laughing in delight as she— _as someone_ —held him up to pat the snout of a great elk-like creature. She always had felt drawn towards the east, hadn’t she? Always had these strange flashes of dreams, or visions, or whatever they were, hadn’t she? _Maybe_ …

Her faint consideration fled before a wave of gripping cold and wicked whispers that seemed to grow and spread from her hand where the ring still sat, wrapped about her finger snugly. _No, it’s impossible, old girl…_ Through the wind-like whispers came the faint echoing sound of Legolas giving further reassurances, and she let her imaginings slip away, shivering as she strove to only listen, and not daydream. “It is a gift none would deny to you, _adar_ —will you not seek them out?”

And then, more clearly and more resonant, Thranduil. “No… it is comforting enough to know that they _are_. Our people must come first; their safety and well-being.”

“But you _know_ that if they but knew the truth they would not begrudge you this—“

“They have bled enough for my sake, and my father’s. The darkness has risen again, and I cannot step aside now, to let them fall to ruin—“

Another memory— _Mother called them dreams, but they feel like memories_ —assailed her, of Thranduil standing beside her— _beside someone_ —as they looked out across the sea of green canopies that comprised his… _their_ kingdom, towards an ill-darkened hill to the far south. He had promised once, to empty that place of darkness, and reclaim their home, hadn’t he? She could almost hear the words forming upon his lips, before again a writhing, hissing burst of whispers came rushing in with blades of ice to cut her from the dream, flowing from her right hand up her arm towards her heart, and leaving her once more shaking her head, silently wringing her curls beneath the elven table, and firmly trying to remind herself that she was only Bilba Baggins, only the burglar, only herself and not some fate-touched soul.

But on the elves spoke, and their voices drew her in again, inescapable unless she fled the room itself. “Our people would rejoice to have a queen again, a bit of brightness amid the recent gloom—”

Another memory leapt upon her without pause, and it was worse by far, for it was _beautiful_ : Thranduil smiling wider than she’d ever seen before, spinning her beneath falling leaves to distant music and laughing at how they caught in her hair. He’s kissed her thrice beneath the leaves, and then slid a golden band, another golden band onto her hand, and oh it was far more precious than the one she’d found beneath the mountain, she would trade them in a heartbeat, and—!!

The cold whispers had become a screech, sending the scene whirling into darkness once more, and a sharp pain seemed to lance between her ears like a distant drum, tolling some unnamed and terrible fury. _For all that you might fancy the thought, you know it can’t be true, Bilba my girl._ She crawled from beneath the table on silent hands and feet, looking anywhere but towards the pair of elves until she had moved some several feet across the room and towards the door.

“Even if they did, if they insisted, I would not wish to bring whomever my heart seeks here.” Thranduil spoke, soft and resigned from somewhere behind her, his voice only the slightest of balms, chasing the whispers back, but not ceasing them. “Not with so many threats upon our borders. The spiders, the orcs… the dragon. No. Perhaps once Oakenshield is dealt with, and that risk avoided…” The faint lance of ice, and the quiet buzz of the whispers had refused to fade after the last flash of memory, and she knew that what they were whispering must be right. _It isn’t like you could compare to an elf queen anyway. And besides… The Valar aren’t cruel. Why would they bind you to him, you fool of a Baggins, when he’s already lost a love to a dragon’s fire, and you’re dead set on provoking another one?_

He did not deserve that fate—no one did. _Even if he is for you, it would be better if he never knew, never found you before…_ She mashed a hand over her face, swiping roughly at the tears she felt she had no right to shed. Across the room, she watched as Thranduil paused, his smile faltering as Legolas deftly twisted the hairpin into his father’s long pale locks, and then the younger elf rose to cross towards the door just past her, forcing her to scuttle aside. It looked stunning upon the Elvenking, like it was no doubt meant to look, far better than it ever had in her curls, or ever would again—she did not think she would have the heart to steal it back, knowing the value it held. His slender hand reached up to caress the golden leaves that sat just against his crown—and he turned upon his seat, those too-familiar blue eyes staring right at her from beneath his furrowed brows.

She did not hear what Legolas said to his father as he opened the door. She did not wait to see if Thranduil answered. Her fate had already been set before her, and no amount of wishful fancy, or heartfelt yearning would change that, and she could not bear the sight of the Elvenking for a moment longer. In a breath she had turned and flung herself towards the opened door, barely managing to duck around Legolas as she fled, and her feet carried her quickly and far down through unfamiliar hallways before she let herself stop, and then, huddled behind a old wine barrel, she wept for a loss that she should not have felt at all.

Back in his chambers, Thranduil fought to bury the flash of sadness that had come washing over him from beneath his breast. It had come clawing up from inside, from that place where his soul reached out towards another, and it left him at odds within himself, his own joy clashing and breaking against it. The smile upon Legolas’ face as well had begun to falter, but the Elvenking simply raised a hand, and then found his feet and crossed to follow after him to dinner. Though it pained him to think that somewhere out there his intended was hurting, there was little he knew to do but try to carry some of that sadness, and pour his own strength back through the quivering bond in turn.

 _Be well, whomever you are—you are not alone._ It was rare that he directly tried to effect the person at the other end of the bond thus; with them unfamiliar to it, he had an unfair advantage, and such acts were more intimate than he felt content to perform without their knowledge. A small touch here or there when sorrow or fear gripped them, though… He hoped that much at least would be forgiven in time.

His son’s call back up the hallway pulled his from his quiet sending, and though his hand refused to cease its idle kneading, he shook himself and crossed the room to follow. Only briefly did he pause, and look back towards the balcony, and the gently wind-tossed curtains, but no voice called forth from there now, and already he wondered if what he had heard was real, and not some memory or dream come unawares to take him. The song’s tune still lurked within his mind as he turned away again, though, soft and warm and full of loving hope and… He bent low, one hand reaching out… and down, to swipe over the faint speckle of wetness that had beaded upon the floor just inside the doorway, the glitter of the sun’s last rays catching it and turning it to amber where it sat.

“ _Adar_ , what is…?” Legolas had returned, not content to wait, and now was eyeing the lone pearl of clear liquid atop his father’s finger. It shimmered in the light, as pure as freshly fallen rain, though it was not simply a drop of spilled water. Strange indeed had been the Halls of Mirkwood of late, Thranduil was again reminded, and mysteries had followed upon the dwarves’ heels like shadows.

 _Mysteries… or something,_ **_someone_** _, at least._ There, balanced upon his finger, it was. “A tear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mindonel’s song is the first part of “In Western Lands”, which is sung by Sam in Return of the King. The lyrics, translated, are:  
> “In western lands beneath the Sun  
> the flowers may rise in Spring,  
> the trees may bud, the waters run,  
> the merry finches sing.  
> Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night  
> and swaying beeches bear  
> the Elven-stars as jewels white  
> amid their branching hair.”
> 
> The second part, which Thranduil sings after her passing, translated is:  
> “Though here at journey's end I lie  
> In darkness buried deep,  
> Beyond all towers strong and high,  
> Beyond all mountains steep,  
> Above all shadows rides the Sun  
> And Stars for ever dwell:  
> I will not say the Day is done  
> Nor bid the Stars farewell.”
> 
> Laurelin (and Telperion), the Two Trees of Valinor, gave off dew that was both light and liquid. Varda collected it in vats, and it was used for a number of things—such as the Silmarils—by the Valar and the Eldar in the ancient days.
> 
> Helcaraxë, or "Grinding Ice", was an icy waste between the lands of Aman and Middle-earth. It isn’t touched on much, but it seems to have been a broken and shifting pack ice covering the northernmost parts of the Great Sea Belegaer.
> 
> Naugrim is one of the Sindarin words for dwarves. Literally “stunted people”.  
> Ionneg - “my son”  
> Adar - “father”  
> Îdh - “peace, calm”  
> Emel - “mother”  
> Û, nae. “No, alas.”  
> Goheno nin - “Forgive me.”
> 
> As to why Thranduil wonders at points if him having a second love would be a visible thing, or something that Legolas might pick up on without being told, we look to this note from Morgoth’s Ring, vol. 10 of C. Tolkien’s The History of Middle-Earth (“Laws and Customs Among the Eldar”, from Phase 2 of The Later Quenta Silmarillion) “...for the Eldar can read at once in the eyes and voice of another whether they be wed or unwed.” There is no real detail on just how such knowledge can be read, but it’s blatant enough that it would be impossible to miss, and I’ve opted to go with it taking the form of the unique way light reflects in his eyes (as a nod to the design choice PJ made with Galadriel having multiple ‘stars’ reflecting in her eyes as a mark of her long life and experiences)...so basically, I’m going with the idea that marriage causes a unique constellation to show in the elves’ eyes. However, Thranduil’s case is a bit unusual. He’s already married (or was married) to Mindonel, and so the signs of that are still there, but now with a second ‘bond’ beginning to form, it’s… not changed the original constellation, but more like begun to add onto it. Since the seed of his connection to Bilba comes from those parts of soul they share, so to would their ‘constellation’ share points. Since Thranduil’s spirit is joined to Mindonel’s and Mindonel’s is joined to Bilba’s, but Bilba’s and Thranduil’s haven’t been properly joined yet, it’s a bit murky—more of Bilba/Thranduil’s constellation shows in both of their eyes than is normal for an unwed pair, but less shows than will do once they’re married. 
> 
> For those curious, the words of the doom Thranduil speaks of are here. “This is the law of Ilúvitar for you, his children, as you know well: the First-born shall take one spouse only and have no other in this life, while Arda endureth. But this law takes no account of Death. This doom is therefore now made, by the right of lawgiving that Ilúvatar committed to Manwë: that if the spirit of a spouse, husband or wife, forsaking the body, shall for any cause pass into the keeping of Mandos, then the living shall be permitted to take another spouse. But this can only be if the former union be dissolved for ever. Therefore the one that is in the keeping of Mandos must there remain until the end of Arda, and shall not awaken again or take bodily form. For none among the Quendi shall have two spouses at one time alive and awake. But since it is not to be thought that the living shall, by his or her will alone, confine the spirit of the other to Mandos, this disunion shall come to pass only by the consent of both. And after the giving of the consent ten years of the Valar shall pass ere Mandos confirms it. Within that time either party may revoke this consent; but when Mandos has confirmed it, and the living spouse has wedded another, it shall be irrevocable until the end of Arda." -The Silmarilion, "The Earlierst Version of Finwë and Míriel"


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely anxiouscrab, Thaliaiwe, & Lumenne, who are honestly a terrific support to me, utterly wonderful, and I could not ask for better pals OR betas!!

**_TA1050_ **

_From its high perch between the tops of the Misty Mountains, the setting sun cast long and languid shadows across the canopy of the Greenwood, and shaded all its leaves in hues of copper and carmine; caramel, russet, and rust. A swift autumn’s breeze set them all to rustling as it lifted, and they rippled and swayed, dancing as if for the amusement of their king as he looked over them from his people’s seat within Emyn Duir. The faint scent of winter was on the wind as it swirled past: a promise of future ice and snow, for all that the zephyr’s touch was soft and temperate yet. Velvet black butterflies floated across the treetops in the gale, soon to depart for warmer climes to the south—for now, however, they made a pleasant enough sight, gamboling aimlessly and without care, although their sporting went unnoticed by the elves who moved in haste on the forest floor below._

_Down in the vale that spread out from the foot of the mountains Thranduil’s people were on the move. Sleek armored figures moved in twos and fours as they flanked plain-clothed forms, though few were the hands of either sort that lacked for blade or bow._

_A creeping sickness had come upon the southern forest over the previous half-decade, its progress so slow and subtle that it had gone unnoticed until recent days, all watchful eyes being fixed further afield than aimed within. It had begun as little more than mist and fog, hanging thick and long about the woodland’s base, stretching out from the foot of the Bald Hill in all directions. Slowly it had thickened into shadow that was nearly palpable, draping like spiderwebs from the weakening, rotting trees and snaring and bewitching the senses of any unlucky men or dwarves that happened into its haze._

_Rare was the passing even of Thranduil’s people into that region at the time, and thus the change had gone unnoticed until the poison had taken firm root. For though the Elvenking greatly desired to return to his father’s holding, to Amon Lanc, that place where the Silvan natives of the forest had first joined in effort and in spirit with the refugee Sindar elves of Beleriand to become one united people, and carved their hopes and dreams into the very hill itself, raising it up into a glittering fortress of wood and stone—he found himself unable to bear the thought of moving his people even those few miles further towards the south, and thus nearer the shattered remnants of Mordor._

_To consider such a place as lost was not easily within his heart to do, and more so with the knowledge that he had promised once before to see it retaken and filled with life again. Sweet Mindonel had never since that long ago day remarked upon his oath, but he knew she still longed to return there to those halls where she had first known what it was to have a home. It would not have been the same, he knew, though such dreary thoughts he kept to himself—their people were diminished still from the War of the Last Alliance, and even if what remained of them had as one united front returned to those ancestral halls, they would have found them emptied, and less full of joy and life than they recalled. So too would dwelling there, he had felt, leave them exposed to the dangers which seemed ever rife within the world beyond the forest—Oropher had led them north for a reason in his time, and the shade of that reason still lurked within Thranduil’s mind, turning him wary and slow to act when action meant a risk to his kin. He had not at all forgotten the years of war and violence that had threatened them before, and would not see such dark days come again upon his people._

_Even through the long centuries of peace, at any time that Thranduil from on his vigilant perch cast his sight towards the silhouette of the treeless hill were sat the abandoned fortress of his people, it seemed the lands laid out before him fell into deeper shadow, and turned dull and gray, and were swallowed by a shade of blackness that grew more swiftly than the starry heavens’ twilight spreading in grasping fingers of deep purple from the east. Such sights of black miasma spreading over the land had Thranduil long hoped to have been more of memory than matter, for the horrors of Mordor which he had been witness to in days long past were never far from his mind, and many were the moments where, lost in his recollections, they rose from within him to dim the very light of the sun itself as he perceived it. No song nor wine nor soothing ray of starlight could quench that fear that had taken root within him, for though the cracked and cratered lands of the Enemy now sat under the careful watch of the kingdoms of Men, and that place was indeed riven and had been dealt a mortal blow, he did not trust that its foul and hateful fire was extinguished forever. Indeed, he knew it could not be so—for he himself had seen Isildur’s failure, and that of Elrond and of Círdan that had allowed evil to linger in the world._

_Thus arose the Elvenking’s hesitance to turn his consideration towards the south, and though he wished it otherwise, it now seemed that what eventuality he had feared was coming to pass. What had begun as merely a strange and constant fog that settled in the night and then never burned away had grown, seeping into the land that had once been their home and slowly, subtly twisting it. The trees grew weak and rotten, their leaves blackening and shining like oil. From them the mist seemed to hang in thick ropes like spiders’ webs, snaring shadows into pits and pools so that no light could reach the forest floor between the gnarled branches. What game there dwelt grew scarce or sickly, and soon was all but spent. In place of birds flew bats and large, dusty moths that swarmed to any point of flame to smother it even as they burned alive. Broad toadstools of unnaturally vibrant hue sprang from the loam, and showered any who dared too close with spores that assaulted the senses, leaving men and dwarves deaf and blind to reality as their minds conjured fake images and sounds. In time the air itself grew foul enough from the miasma that even walking there was enough to disorient most mortals, leaving them to wander aimlessly until thirst and hunger, or the foul denizens of that place claimed them._

_Most disturbing however was that of late the fortress itself, long abandoned, had begun to flicker at night with points of light—torches and campfires burning red-hot against the midnight sky. By day strange darkness permeated the very air around the place, leeching what light shone upon it and weakening it to nothing. The haze it radiated was a nearly palpable thing, of sight and scent as well as of the mind, and it filled Thranduil with furious despair to look upon. What brave scouts had volunteered to venture there in recent days had returned first harried, and later wracked with fear, and then finally they returned not at all. Those that had managed to make it back told tales of gatherings of fell beasts and beings: orcs and goblins and wargs and trolls, in small numbers at first, and then by greater counts as more and more seemed to be drawn out from their crevices and pits by the shadow to gather in its wake. Spiders too they saw, of unnatural size and number, spinning webs that threatened to snare even the most alert and deft of hand and foot._

_One scout alone, who for her bold yet foolish nature had sought to dare even up into the forsaken building, claimed to have caught a glimpse of a dark figure that had stood atop the highest tower, staring down over all those things that slunk and crept below. The shadowy form stretched out a hand, and by its will the fell beasts and monsters began to screech and tear at the fortress, rending and scorching, toppling edifices and turning that once-proud spire into some twisted and ruinous thing, a jagged blight that reared from the land in a hideous mockery of its former splendor as they dug their pits and there entrenched themselves. In fear and grief the scout had fled from the sight, though by her claim she had felt the shadowy being’s eyes upon her as she had taken flight into the trees, and it seemed the miasma had clung upon her heels, and a dark will had come with it all the way back to Emyn Duir._

_Now the mountains themselves which housed the elves seemed to have fallen into the long shadow of the hill of dark sorcery. Spiders had been found upon the south and western slopes and weaving their webs into the trees thereon, and more and more Thranduil’s people came to him with pleas to make their home safe once more. It was a simple enough thing to cull the creatures of darkness where they were found, but more were ever coming from the south, and already he suspected what the nature of the shadowy figure was that drove them to spread their poison. If this_ **_was_ ** _some lieutenant of the dark lord (and at that time even the Elvenking did not dare to think that this might be Sauron himself, once more on the cusp of taking physical form) who now ruled over the dark tower of Dol Guldur, there would be no end to their numbers, and no rest for his people. A relentless death by attrition was all that awaited the elves should they dare to remain within the shadow’s grasp, and though it cut at his heart to uproot their lives once more, he knew that only beyond the the forest river, with the barrier of the rushing water which evil’s power had never managed to fully master the corruption of, might they be safe again._

_And so Thranduil had planned and delved, and fashioned for them a great Hall of a kind with long-lost Menegroth, which had sheltered him in his youth and ever been foremost in his mind among dwellings for its beauty and security. In truth his own works were less grand than that now sunken realm, for he had not the wealth nor the eager aid of dwarves as had done King Thingol. Still there was fashioned a mighty and hidden fortress of living stone and wood, full of deep and wide halls to house and delight and protect his people._

_Even now the work continued to refine and beautify their dwelling place, though the most of the elves of the forest had already departed thereto—for the shadow was growing ever darker, and Thranduil was not content to wait until midnight settled over his people to send them forth in haste. He had felt that fell presence before, and though it seemed little more than an echo now, he did not trust to patience in this matter. He knew the Shadow over Middle Earth could never be truly destroyed while the One Ring remained, and he had not forgotten the failure of Isildur, of Elrond and Círdan so long ago. Nor had he forgotten where Isildur had fallen, and the Ring been lost—the Gladden Fields, which now sat just outside that growing shade, and the reaching grasp of whatever servant of evil had come to nest in the south of the forest._

* * *

**_TA2941, September 7th_ **

Bilba had eventually collapsed into a fitful sleep in the small nook she’d found behind the barrels, and it was hours later when she startled back to wakefulness, at least judging by how stiff and sore she felt—a hard stone floor was still not an ideal bed, even for an utterly exhausted hobbit. Perhaps to be blamed for the poor quality of her sleep as well, she had had the most terrible dreams… Her heart was still racing and she could feel fresh tears upon her cheeks, but the silence and the dim light of the calm stone hallway helped to calm her. She stretched and rubbed her eyes as her pulse settled, and blinked in brief confusion at where she was (not in Nori’s coat pile at all) and wondered at the odd appearance of the world around herself before she remembered she had fallen asleep with the ring on.

_Aha. Well, I do suppose that explains it._

Yes, she’d had the most unsettling dreams as she’d slept, full of dark whispers and a creeping feeling of dread, and the sensation of being stretched, pulled in many directions at once. A knobble-kneed figure, lanky and pale and wretched had hunted her down pitch black stone passages, coughing and retching, “Gollum! Gollum!” as it had given chase, and driven her into a chasm filled with glittering gold. Its splendor had been so bright that it had lit the room to the vaulted ceilings and drove the hacking beast back into the dark, but something about its vibrant light had seemed almost sickly, and there was a scent like fever on the muggy air.

She’d crept along the lip of the canyon, searching for a way across to where she could just make out the Company, arrayed in armor and beckoning to her. Were they about to fight? She had not known what or why, for all about them seemed empty, but the need to go to them had been overwhelming. Too long she dawdled, though, and a booming, echoing voice like thunder had shook the cavern, and her dream-self had had to clap her hands over her ears to not be deafened by its hissing snarl. Across the gap she could see Thorin staring back at her, unaffected by the volume, with a crown upon his head and darkness growing in his eyes.

“I will not part with a sssingle coin. Not one piece of it…!” It had reverberated in the space, shaking stone from the roof above to crash into the sea of gold, and its echo sounded doubled, a second voice rasping with equal fury for all that it seemed to come from Thorin’s own lips. The mounds of treasure down below all began to slide and hiss over each other as the pit shook, and one by one the coins seemed to glow yet brighter, flaring to life like stirred embers and melting into a shimmering, radiant, terrible magma of molten metal, which rose like a bubbling, boiling soup ever closer to the ledge she found herself perched upon. She had seen slitted eyes blink open from within the fire, one reptile-gold and the other azure blue, but both full of malice and terrible greed, and it seemed a fanged maw opened up, the liquid gold fit to snap and bite towards her in the likeness of the dragon Smaug, or perhaps like the black-scaled beast that had haunted her nightmares before.

A voice had called out to her then, just as she felt sure she’d slip and topple over into the chasm. It was gentle and tender, and she had turned to find the Elvenking standing before her, one hand outstretched to reach for hers. “Come, quickly now, _mell nín_ ,” he’d called to her, “Before it is too late.” Her heart leapt in her chest, for in her dream she knew that she loved him dearly, and always had, though she did not understand why. She’d stepped towards him, her hand rising to grasp for his…

Upon the cellar floor, Bilba shivered and clutched at the edges of her vest as the end of the dream flashed through her mind, wringing the frayed fabric and pinching her eyes shut tight against the already-fading images.

She’d reached out for the Elvenking, but just before their fingers had touched a third hand had appeared. Slender and delicate, it had slid from the shadows to push her own aside, and grasped Thranduil’s with eager strength. He’d taken the elf maiden into his arms—for an elf she had been, tall and resplendently ethereal, with sunshine curls that hung nearly to her waist—and seemed to nearly forget Bilba’s presence entirely. It had been a shattering blow, she recalled, but her dream self had been unable to look away as they embraced.

The pair had turned back to her then, and their eyes were cold, cruel, aloof—this she could believe was the Thranduil that Thorin had spoken of, who would turn away refugee dwarves with neither aid nor assistance. They stepped forward together, side by side, herding her towards the edge of the cliff over the bubbling molten gold below, and he had smiled, as sharp and brittle and unforgiving as ice as they both had reached for her. “It is all because of you… and because of this,” he had purred, and then the woman had grabbed Bilba by the wrist, holding her still so that he could slide the ring—and she had only then realized she was wearing it in the dream—from her finger.

It had felt like having part of her very self torn off when he had removed it, as if he’d ripped her finger from her hand, and she had screamed and screamed and screamed as he had pulled it free and then slid it to rest upon the elf maiden’s hand. From his own hair he plucked Bilba’s hairpin, meaning to give it too to his companion, but Bilba had wept and begged him to return that much at least to her, and viciously he had obliged.

With a flash of movement he had stabbed the point of the pin into her chest, plunging it into her heart as if it was the easiest thing in the world. As if her body had been made of tissue paper in the dream, and not flesh and bone. The maiden, who had yet to release her grip on Bilba’s wrist, had thrust her backwards then, flinging her off the ledge to fall down, down, down into the magma. The last thing she’d seen before the dream had melted into darkness again was both of them smiling down at her, their blue eyes alight with dark power, and the golden band of the ring glittering on the woman’s hand…

It had been a horrible dream, and it left her feeling shaken nearly as much as anything had done these last few days. Hidden away behind the barrels, Bilba lifted her hand to eye the ring—it glowed a lustrous gold even in the colorless world that it imposed while she wore it—and frowned. There was a faint voice in the back of her mind begging her to remove the thing, but she flinched away from the thought as soon as it came, her body remembering the pain her nightmare had invented to accompany taking it off. _Not safe anyway, is it? You’d be caught the minute you poked your nose out from hiding! No, better keep it on, keep it safe…_

She shuddered, mentally rallying herself for a moment, and resolved to keep it on. Really, wearing the ring was the best she had as far as plans went, she mused as she at last levered herself up, mentally burying all lingering thoughts of her nightmare as she squeezed past the barrels and stood glancing about at what looked to be a wine cellar she’d hunkered down in. Racks of bottles and rows of barrels were all the company she found there, along with a lone table and two chairs. An odd lever thrust itself up from an open patch of floor, but she gave it little more than a passing glance as she crept across the space, already intent upon leaving the cellar behind (and hopefully her foul dreams with it).

A carved stairway led up from the room, and she clambered up it in rigid silence. It spilled into a long hallway lined with passages and doors, and almost idly, used to the habit of checking each one for a locked handle that might mean dwarves were being kept within, she began to make her way along, pausing to try each knob even as her thoughts wandered. It was a welcome distraction from her woes and sudden infatuation, and though slow and tedious, it wasn’t as if she had had any better ideas for what to do. She still hadn’t found Thorin, and she couldn’t imagine managing to convince Thranduil to let the Company go—though her heart, which had only just calmed down, began to race again at the mere thought of standing before him, speaking to him… if racing in a different manner entirely than she had felt when it had been _fear_ gripping her.

_By Yavanna’s golden wildflowers, you’d think you’d never seen an elf before! Never, never had an infatuation before—because that’s_ **_all_ ** _it is, isn’t it?_ She simply could not understand what it was that had caused her to fall so suddenly and intensely into his charms. It wasn’t at all like what she had felt for her suitors back in the Shire, even those few that she had bothered to take a second look at. He’d been in her thoughts, her dreams… though she cast away that thought, memories of her nightmare too fresh yet to bear dwelling on.

It made no sense at all. She felt like she had known him before, _loved_ him before; like she knew exactly the kind of person he was and trusted him to know her in turn, yet they’d never even spoken to each other!

She shook her head as she palmed another doorknob, turning it just enough to tell it was unlocked. _No, the moment he turned around and you saw his face, those blasted blue eyes, you had to go and give your heart away like some silly lass from a cautionary tale for fauntlings! I can imagine it now, “And that’s why you must never go on any adventures, dear, or else you’ll be cursed to fall in love with one of the Big Folk like Mad Bilba Baggins, and have to wear shoes and, and only get three meals a day!” May as well be doomed to pine away to nothing now as well while you’re at it…!_ She berated herself, and did her best to firmly ascribe to the notion that the whole business was utterly absurd as she went along.

_...Besides, it’s like you thought yesterday. He’s already lost one love to a dragon, hasn’t he? Even if you_ **_did_ ** _love him, and not just have some silly fancy for him, and even if he_ **_did_ ** _take interest in you, and the Valar only know why he would for an odd little hobbit like yourself, it wouldn’t matter, would it? Even now you’re doing your best to liberate his prisoners, endanger his home and his son, and rush headlong towards a fiery death! And… and you know he doesn’t deserve that, and…_

She sighed quietly, pausing in her search to simply breathe for a long moment and push away the feeling of tears brimming in her eyes once more. She was being just the utter fool. Honestly, there was no reason for the thought of all those never-could-bes to be so utterly heartbreaking to her, and she knew it… though that did little to stop her heart from aching. It was _almost_ frightening to realize how much it seemed to affect her, and to not understand why, and she wracked her brain for any possible cause to lay her troubles at the feet of aside from her own willful and unruly heart.

Perhaps the magic of the forest, which had so altered the dwarves before, was finally getting to her. If they could think themselves at some grand feast, or imagine other dwarves in the woods with them, why couldn’t it cause her heart to go all a-twitter for a king?

Perhaps she was going mad from lack of sleep; she’d heard of such things before, or at least she thought she had. Long sleepless nights would give anyone delusions, and make their judgement poor. She’d been on her feet for days at a time lately, for nearly the last month it felt like, between the forest and the fortress.

Or maybe she was just cracking under the stress of having the fate of the entire quest, of the dwarven people at least in part, upon her shoulders. If that was it then she realized she would have a newfound respect for Thorin when all this was said and done. If he’d been carrying such a weight of worry alone for so long, and—

The handle beneath her hand refused to turn, locked shut tight against intrusion and jarring against her palm when she absently tugged at it. It jerked her from her excuse-making, and she gave it a second try, a faint thrill of hope sparking in her when it refused again to open. It was the only one so far that had not been unlatched, and from the outside there was no sign that it was any different from the rest she’d tried, which sent interest pinging through her.

Now there were very many reasons a door might be locked, especially in a place like this, and Bilba knew that very well. But _if_ it were some sort of treasure room, or the storage place for anything of worth—relics, arms, heirlooms—well, she rather thought there would be some sort of identifying mark on the wall outside it to let the elves keep track of it. This door looked just like any other in the hall, however, and there was no obvious reason for it to be locked at all. There was no guard posted nearby (and wasn’t _that_ a relief, given how caught up in her thoughts she’d been?) to keep watch, but the sconces that shone from up and down the line were lit. _They wouldn’t light an unused hall, would they?_ She didn’t take the elves for wasteful sorts, though given the lights here seemed to be more of magic than of a material sort, perhaps that was not a concern.

There was really no way to tell _what_ might be inside, in the end. It had to be _something_ , but there was no way to know but to find a way in… or to knock. She briefly weighed the odds, the risks, and then nodded to herself. Nothing else for it really, she supposed, and she _was_ invisible…

With a quick tap of her knuckles, she rapped, _one, two, three_ upon the door, and then leaned in to press her ear to the smooth wood grain.

* * *

“Fascinating…” Thranduil stared after the guards that he had bid remove the dwarf from his sight. The youngest of the batch, he guessed this one had been; the dark-haired archer, still newly come into his beard, and similar in coloring enough that he felt sure this was one of Oakenshield’s nephews—not to mention that this had been the one calling out to Thorin as he’d been led away upon their arrival. He had been the third dwarf brought before the Elvenking today, and the third to have such an unusual and _curious_ reaction to the apparent sight of him… or at least to what he _wore_. As the dwarrow was pulled out of sight Thranduil reached a hand up to trace a finger along the curved golden hairpin nestled against the side of his head and along the edge of his crown, and let his thoughts begin to roam.

The night before had been well-spent, and he was long in Legolas’ company, a treasure of time that he had not often had at hand in the years past. They had talked of many things, but mostly of Mindonel, and then yet more of what sort of new heart Thranduil thought might be linked to his—as well as the mystery of the singing they both had heard (though Legolas did not know of his father’s encounter) and the scattered teardrops they had found upon the floor of the king’s chambers, hinting perhaps at some well-hidden intruder lurking in their home. Thranduil had grown pensive after that, his mind drifting past more and more outlandish ideas, spurred on by the pulsing waves of emotion from beneath his ribs, and Legolas took it as his cue to return to his troop of scouts for a time, all the more eager to redouble their watchful treks in search of any supposed interloper.

By morning Thranduil was no closer to answering the riddle that had been presented to him than when he’d first begun, and with a sigh been forced to push those thoughts and wonderings away to attend to more immediate (or at least more actionable) concerns. His people still dwelt within sight of the mountain, and he would not suffer them to wait idly by in uncertain security for him to chase unhoused spirits or trickster shades throughout his halls. As morning waxed he had intended to resume his questioning of the dwarves, more keen than ever to convince them to abandon their quest, or at least to learn what they had planned to do upon arrival there—for it could not be to enter the mountain by the main gate, not even dwarves would be so blindly foolish, he admitted. As it stood, their plans were all for naught, as they were securely within his grasp… but if they had intended to brave the mountain, that meant that others might as well, and he would know by what means and methods they had even begun to hope to manage it.

Of course, what intentions Thranduil had for their discussions had been derailed nearly as soon as the first of them had been brought before him for questioning.

It had begun as it had done each time before. The dwarf—a common-looking sort, with a thin moustache and braids to either side of his face in his brown hair (and the one most prone to singing bawdy tunes each time his guards wandered past his room by all reports), had been cheerfully defiant of every attempt at civil communication, skirting questions with rude comments and jabs, and feigning simple-minded interest in everything around the great hall. Everything, of course, except for Thranduil himself, whom the dwarf seemed content to studiously ignore.

He’d not gotten the same sense of disdain from this one as some of the others, which was worth noting, but neither had he been forthcoming with any of the details the Elvenking so sought. When Thranduil had eventually offered him his freedom in return for information he had only shrugged, seeming happy enough to languish in captivity. Then at last the dwarf had faced the elf to no doubt make some pithy comment about the quality of the room service they’d been so graciously offered, but the quip had never come, and instead Thranduil had been treated to the sight of what of the dwarf’s face was not hidden behind his unruly mane bleeding away its ruddy color to leave the stark and startled paleness of one who had seen a ghost, his eyes gone wide and mouth left open in a gape.

“Where did you get tha’...?” the dwarf had breathed after a moment, and then begun to look about with far less composure than he had carried himself with before. Quick darting movements of the eyes, searching for some unknown sight, as if an elf would not be able to notice them flicking into every shadowy corner. Just what he was looking for escaped Thranduil, as did the source of the dwarf’s disconcertion, but it did to catch his attention far more than their conversation prior had done. He kept a close and careful eye upon him as he continued to press and prod for information, especially when the dwarf could not keep his eyes from the king any longer, and then seemed quite unable to look away from whatever it was about Thranduil himself that had so unsettled the fellow.

It had taken some little time to determine what had so derailed the dwarf’s mood, but when he’d realized that it was the sight of the hairpin glittering from above his ear, an idea had begun to form in the Elvenking’s mind. It was not the first clue to be dropped into his lap, after all, and what suspicions he had idly considered now seemed more and more like to be revealed as truth. Reports of missing food from the kitchens and larders. The feeling of his guards being watched. The wafting notes of song echoing from empty halls and abandoned gardens, the pin’s discovery itself, the _tear_ that he had found glittering upon the threshold of his own rooms? _No lingering fëa, stolen away from Mandos’ Halls after all, mayhap. The dwarves have an accomplice, it would seem, as Legolas suspected_ , he mused with more than a little curiosity. _One that somehow has passed unseen, and made sport of playing burglar within my halls_. His heart had pulled in two directions at that thought, and he had waved to his guards to take the increasingly agitated dwarf to his cell of a room to give Thranduil peace enough to sit back upon his throne and think further on the matter.

The idea that his halls had been infiltrated was as upsetting to him as it had been to Legolas the eve before, and he felt a flicker of ire spark in him at the thought. If there _was_ in fact an interloper within his realm, they had not proven themselves to be dangerous at least, had done no more harm than mildly alarming some of his soldiers and attendants… But that did not mean they might not _become_ dangerous in an effort to free their comrades. And if _one_ person could evade his notice, the notice of the entire populace of the Halls so completely, well, mightn’t others too? Others with less savory demeanors than this one apparently had? To think they had even invaded his most private, protected sanctuaries; his own rooms, and his wife’s magically sealed gardens… He could feel his heart begin to quicken with displeasure, even anger at the very idea.

_But then… you did not mind the thought before, did you? When you thought it might be something… someone… else._ Indeed Thranduil could not recall the strange events of the previous day without once again hearing that voice, as clear as a bell on a summer’s day, singing out directly to and for him (at least that was how it had seemed) so sweetly. And the pulse and pull of his heart had grown only stronger upon hearing it… He had, foolishly perhaps, dared to let himself wonder if this might not be some shade of his departed wife come again, or had done so at least until he had found the tear. Then he had had to admit to himself that what voice he had heard, while entrancing, had not been Mindonel’s—too free, too unrepentantly open in feeling, and too bold by half the voice had been to match his wife’s sweet subtler style, though it was no less lovely.

For all his long years he knew not what to make of such events, nor what the truth might be. His mind said plainly that it must only be some accomplice of the dwarves, come to make mischief or seek their freedom. His heart whispered that it was something else, something far more important, though it could not say why he felt so strongly about it. Such moments of indecision were rare for him, and those that had come upon him in the past he had had the time and patience to inspect, and turn over and over in contemplation before making up his mind. But this situation seemed less apt to wait, and a thread of nearly-reckless want for haste strung through him, urging him to action.

And so he had called for a second of the dwarves to be brought before him, thinking to suss out if the sight of his recovered treasure had been the spur of the first’s upset, or if it had only been chance that caused it. The mithril-haired one, full of prim propriety would do; one who at least before had proved less obnoxious than the rest, disinclined to swear or spit or rant. Polite enough to face him directly as well, it had seemed, not stare off in false bemusement and draw out the time both dwarf and elf were forced to suffer the other’s presence.

That civility was what Thranduil had counted on, and it had seemed that luck was with him. It had taken no time at all, a mere instant for the dwarf to notice the hairpin that he wore, and though the burly fellow strove to maintain his placidly aloof disposition, Thranduil had not missed the subtle firming of the line of his jaw beneath the silvery beard, nor how the dwarf’s hands, so very neatly folded before him, seemed to grip each other all the harder, going white about the knuckles from the strain. That meant that the pin _was_ the cause of their upset, and that knowledge could be _used_.

He’d carried on interrogating the dwarf as usual, though his focus was less on his answers and more on his reactions and ill-growing mood. It was to the fellow’s credit that he regained his composure fairly quickly, though several times before Thranduil dismissed him he caught his attention straying back to that golden piece, and once or twice, as had the common-looking one before, cast his gaze about in searching at the shadowy nooks around the hall. Eventually no more information had been forthcoming, and the dwarf settled into a grim and pensive silence before the Elvenking had sent him away, and called for a third dwarf to be brought forth.

That one had been the young nephew so alike in look to Oakenshield, and he had been the easiest to read by far—more expressive and carelessly open in demeanor than the rest, with quick eyes that early caught sight of what Thranduil wished him to see. He was as well less distrustful of the elves; less disdainful, it seemed, though his guards had spoken of his bravado when amongst the group in their rare allotted gatherings, and he appeared intimidated yet by the sight of the Elvenking himself. The archer had clearly been upset to see the hairpin in Thranduil’s keeping, and had made no (or very little) effort to hide his near-full turn upon the platform where he stood to cast about, supposedly for whomever he thought that it belonged to. Still, for all that the youngster was expressive, he too was loyal enough to not betray his comrades, neither those perhaps invisible nor the ones already known to the elves. His constant fidgeting and peering about spoke volumes when his tongue moved not, and the defensive glint in his naive eyes—and to think again that Thorin would risk even his own sister-sons, so freshly grown from childhood; what desperate _greed_ must drive that would-be-king?—was like to that which they had shone with when he had been parted from his uncle those days ago.

_Who must this fourteenth fellow be, to have the loyalty and care of them all so dearly?_ That princes and paupers both reacted so strongly to the sight of the trinket—which Thranduil surmised must have been carried by that mysterious member themselves—in worry for, what? Who? “Yes, interesting indeed,” the Elvenking muttered beneath his breath as the young archer was led away, his ice blue eyes too distant with tumbling thoughts to see the dwarf look up in askance at his captain of the guard, nor note how she placed a hand more soothing than a soldier’s firmly captive-guiding grasp upon his shoulder as they went.

Perhaps the dwarves feared for their companion’s safety? The pin _had_ been found in a spider’s nest, though there was no sign of a body there, and the dwarves should have no way of knowing that. If they had not been in contact since they’d been plucked forth from the forest, it was a reasonable enough thing to consider. The woods were not kind to those who did not know the way through, and with the activity of the dark forces rising from the south again, one lone vagabond stood little chance of managing for so long. More like that the dwarves were worried they’d been caught, tossed into a cell like they themselves had been, and whatever plans they’d made all gone to waste. Yet they had all remained stubborn, unwilling to admit defeat even if they suspected it, and for all they knew their friend had sold them out, and thus been spared…

Thranduil paused in that thought as that idea washed over him. Dwarves were ever a suspicious lot, even between their clans, and not all the folk his scouts had captured were of one sort. If there was an accomplice, which there did seem to be, it was possible they were not of a kin with Thorin—and likely not a dwarf at all, for never had one been so stealthy as to pass out of and beyond elvish sight and hearing. Some outsider, then, though he could not imagine what sort of creature it might be. And were not dwarves inclined to wariness and judgement of the other races? Though true that most of those suspicions were well earned by their treatment over the years and Ages, still it stood to reason that he could make use of this divide.

“Bring Thorin Oakenshield to me,” he called out then to those soldiers waiting at hand, his plan already forming with stoic resolution in his mind. Of them all, he could count on Thorin to be easily moved to worry and mistrust, especially towards one whom he might already lack in said trust for. And if he could convince the dwarf leader that he had been betrayed, well…! _One might suspect he would give them up in turn if he thought himself sold out. When the dwarves have all of them turned their back upon their ally, might not the enemy of my enemy become my friend instead?_

* * *

Bilba had only just thought she’d heard a bit of movement from inside the room when the sound of feet, near-silent but coming towards her from down the hall, sent her darting from where she’d crouched against the wooden door. A trio of armored elves came ‘round the bend from where a staircase emptied onto the level, and the foremost of them had an ornate key clasped in his hand, the bow of which was looped around a slim ring which held many others, all alike in style, though differing in length and at the bit and pin. She backed swiftly away from them, but not as far as she might have done—if this room _was_ where they’d been keeping Thorin, then this might be her best chance to get in. The other dwarves had not been kept under lock, but there had been no need to do so—the elves knew they would not abandon their king, and none of them had seen a single hair of his beard since that first day.

Indeed it seemed that her guess was right, for as she hovered near they unlocked and then swung wide the door, and in a chair at the back of a small and windowless room she saw the exact dwarf she had sought, sitting with his arms crossed and looking for all the world as if _he_ were a king upon his throne, and not some captive in a cell. The elves moved inside together as one, and she hurried right in after, though only close enough to pass the doorway and then duck into the corner nearest it, not wanting to risk being bumped into by the rest of them as they quite crowded the little space. Wordlessly they came before Thorin, and silently he rose, moving to stand amidmost them. Without a sound they guided him to the door, two of the elves’ hands moving to hold to his arms, though only lightly, and he went along without a fuss, perhaps knowing that otherwise they would surely drag and force him, and feeling too proud for that. He passed so near to Bilba as they left that she almost could have reached out to touch him, but then, as quickly as she’d stumbled upon him, he was gone.

And Bilba found herself left behind in the empty room, the door swinging shut and the lock clicking to before she could make up her mind on if she ought to follow or remain. It quite settled the conundrum, though perhaps not in the way she’d imagined. “Drat the luck of it,” she harrumphed under her breath, quite sure in the moment that there was no risk of being overheard. “Not even a moment to talk to him… he seemed alright though. They’re feeding him at least.” What glance she’d caught marked him as more hale and healthy than at least he’d been within the forest, and cleaner too, free of the grime of travel. He’d seemed closed off, however, and not just because in his eyes it was only the elves that had come to fetch him. Given what she knew of the rest of the Company not having seen him, she supposed there was a real chance that he had not seen them either.

“He must be quite worried for them,” she reasoned as she paced the room, looking idly over the small desk and plain cot that sat within. There was nothing of decor about the place, nor anything that might be used to pick the lock or as a weapon, but it was more than a prison cell by far. “Especially Fili and Kili, I imagine. I know I would be quite a mess if I knew they were keeping someone so dear to be away…” She let that thought lay where it fell, remembering in a flash the sight of the two rounded stones she’d raised above her parents’ graves; and as well her heart had gone to that strange new fascination which had so consumed her in the last day, leaving her to grimace at her own irrationality once more. The thought of leaving the forest was suddenly quite sour; she could almost hear Thorin growling in her ear of the treachery of elves, Dwalin and Balin demanding she agree and put her back to the woods forevermore, the rest of the Company, Fili, Kili, Bofur, sweet Ori all looking at her as if she had betrayed them for the whims of her heart…

“No, what matters now is getting the lot of them out of here, Bilba my girl,” she sighed to herself. “You’ve found them all now, so that’s a start. Sooner or later they’ll bring Thorin back, and then you can talk to him. I’ve no doubt he has a plan by now, and he’ll be glad to know the others are safe and being treated better than himself at least.”

With a firm nod she swung herself up onto the cot, her hair-covered feet swinging back and forth over the edge as she settled in to wait.

* * *

Thranduil fought to keep his expression neutral as Thorin stood before him, the dwarven king staring with blazing eyes at the slender rod of gold, silver, and mithril the Elvenking held, its leaves glinting in the light and from between his fingers. “Where came you by this…?” The words had slipped from the surly captive’s lips before he could catch himself, some faint thread woven of both hope and expectant grief flavoring the question with undoubtedly unintended weight, and leaving Thorin’s voice thick and clumsy in his haste to either stop himself or have an answer.

Their conversation, if that was what it could have been called for all that Thranduil had done the main of the asking _and_ the talking, had gone as it had done each time the stubborn dwarf had been brought forth before. The Elvenking put forth a question, and if it were answered at all it was done so churlishly, with sarcasm or deadpan plainness, bereft of any true information or value. What was their plan? Their own, and none of his business. What had they been doing in the forest? Starving, mostly. How did they mean to approach the mountain? By walking, or if they were lucky, by pony. Such had been the fashion of things each time before, and Thranduil was not surprised by the dwarf’s ill-meant conduct. This time however he planned to go the further with his talk, and so he forged ahead through the usual list of inquiries, his back to Thorin all the while (and thus the hairpin neatly hidden from his prisoner’s disinterested gaze).

He’d pressed to know if the dwarves had had help from others with their quest. He pressed to know how many. He pressed even to know how the sons of Durin meant to pay such hypothetical assistants… and it was then that he had turned, and reaching up to his crown removed the pin, sliding the smooth shaft of it along his palm as he slipped it free. “With gold, perhaps, such as this? With gems, as sparkling clear as those set shining here?” He’d turned the piece just so to let it catch the light and glitter, and he had seen recognition in the dwarf-king’s face at the sight of it.

“Where came you by this…?” Thorin had asked before he could stop himself, and Thranduil fought to hide his pleasure at the reaction.

“A gift,” he stated, holding it aloft, and letting all the fond affection he truly held for the memento shine through on his face for but a moment—and long enough for Thorin to mark, he knew, by how the dwarf’s dark brows furrowed in confusion and displeasure. “It was recently returned to me,” for just a beat pale ice blue eyes met deeper azure ones, which widened and then hardened just perceptibly, “By a _loyal_ hand. Not long after my scouts delivered to me your party, even.”

A breath. A pause. The faintest hint of a self-satisfied grin. A moment to let the fish consider the dancing worm upon the hook before it inevitably took the bait. Thorin would find no lie in Thranduil’s words, for he had spoken true (but cleverly). Then, “Why? Is it to your liking? I suppose your line already has shown a _fondness_ for the gems and crafts of the elves, and should you have your dragon-treasure, you would reclaim them greedily enough once more. Or perhaps it is only the _gold_ you lust for, enough to risk even a dragon’s wrath? By what means would you assail the drake?” Thranduil’s smile fell, cold anger in his mien instead, their talk turned back into the well-worn ruts it had rambled along before. So too did Thorin’s face go hard and distant, the doors behind those willful eyes shutting against intrusion. But the spark of consideration was in them now, the seed of suspicion and suspect germinating beyond the veil of stubborn silence. Ever wary and distrustful were dwarves, and Thranduil had known many of them over the ages, and what to say to turn their thoughts this way or that as he liked.

For a time more he had kept the dwarven leader, eventually dismissing him to be taken back in hand by his guards, and then in full sight of Thorin had raised the pin (and he had kept it both in hand and in the dwarrow’s easy sight all the while) to smile at it, and run a finger along the broad golden holly leaf there, and then twisted it back into his hair to nestle against his crown as if it were meant from its making to sit just there.

_Let Thorin Oakenshield consider what he has heard and seen, and then make his own conclusions about it. His kind has ever done so before,_ he mused as he watched from the corner of his eye the dwarf look sharply away, and then his retreating figure slowly descend the steps back to the quiet, lonely room where he was being kept.

* * *

The door swung open in one movement, and it was only her invisibility that saved Bilba from being seen then as the elves thrust Thorin back into the room. Their own haste or perhaps disinterest kept them from noticing the dip in the cot where she still sat, and for that she would have thanked Yavanna were she not so busy scrambling out of the dwarf king’s way as he stomped deeper into the chamber, nearly brushing against her as he all but threw himself into the chair and glowered for all the world like a thundercloud about to burst forth in storm and fury. She’d imagined he’d been taken before Thranduil (and reminded herself quite firmly that that was one more reason to have remained where she was and not followed—even thinking about the Elvenking was one distraction too many) which explained his ill-tempered mood. He certainly would have been in higher spirits if he’d been allowed to mingle with the others of the Company, but if the elves had kept them apart so far she could not imagine them indulging that desire of his now.

She did not remove the ring immediately, and instead crept over towards the door to wait until the elven guards’ steps faded into silence. Thorin was sensible and alert, and had seen many things in his days she was sure, but a hobbit appearing out of empty space, with no warning or hint to her presence? That stood to startle anyone, and if he cried out when the guards were yet at hand they might return, and ruin what chance she had to talk to the fellow. A moment passed, then two, and she hunkered down behind the little desk as best she could before she slid the ring free—it felt oddly important to keep it secret even from Thorin—and stuffed it into her pocket as she stood, peeking around the wooden edge towards him.

“Pst! Thorin!” She called, though she really had no need to. His head had snapped up, cool azure eyes flaring to life from their dull introspective stare as they found her, half-hidden in the corner of his room. He did not call out in shock, but he was on his feet in a flash, crossed to her and gripping her by the shoulders and giving her a mild shake. Normally she would have been quick to complain about the rough handling, but she supposed he’d been all alone for the last week, and perhaps even thought her a ghost at first, as she’d not seen him since well before, when he had sent her scrambling up that tall tree to get a heading on where they were within the wood. So she let him test the reality of her presence, and bore out the searching stare he gave her from toe to tip, though it lasted perhaps overlong about her face and fixed seemingly slightly above her eyes—she would not be shocked if she had twigs or leaves tangled there after her misadventure in the gardens—until at last he released her and stepped back, his brows now furrowed over his narrowed eyes.

“Bilba Baggins,” he huffed after another moment, and shook his head just slightly. “I had thought you dead, taken by the spiders or left to starve in this accursed forest.”

Ahh, so she had guessed right then about what he must have thought of the sight of her. “Not a chance,” she whispered back, still not daring to raise her voice in case an elf were passing by. “I’d like to think you’d thought better of me by now than to end up as some breakfast for those lazy lobs. And it was hard to miss the sound of you all crashing through the forest, though by the time I’d caught up you’d been captured.” She’d been utterly sure she’d be left behind when they’d taken off in flight, dazed by the spiders’ poisons and their own starvation, running wild in combative fright.

She continued on for a time with the story of her previous days; how she’d stalked the elves back to the door to Thranduil’s Halls, and slipped in in time to see them separated, and then collapsed from exhaustion. She left out, of course, any talk of her strange dreams and what feelings had impressed themselves upon her at the sight of the Elvenking—it was no doubt the last thing Thorin cared to hear, as well as being exceptionally personal, and immaterial as well. She gladly informed him that she’d found all the other dwarves, and that they were well-fed and being taken care of, and even allowed to mingle now and then. None of them, she told him, had given up any information at all, despite being interrogated repeatedly by the elves. Their weapons had all been taken too, and she’d yet to find them or their packs, but was still looking.

Thorin himself kept quiet, allowing her to speak on and on as she liked. It was, she reasoned, the first friendly voice he’d heard in days, and he seemed attentive to her, though it was odd that he had asked no questions. His stare upon her made her nervous, but it was not enough to eclipse the plain relief she felt at finding him, and he had ever been the intense sort, to impress his will and thoughts upon others with a look or hard word—it was not the first time she’d felt slightly intimidated by him, but to her own credit, and thanks perhaps in part to her own successes of late, she shrugged it off, more firm in her self-confidence than she had often been before.

At last she came around to what ideas she’d had about escaping, about how the gates were opened or shut by magic, and too heavy to budge as well as being guarded day and night. She intended to keep looking, though she felt rather grim about the prospects of finding an easy route. “It’s a proper fortress, really, though I suspect you dwarves would only appreciate it begrudgingly. There’s enough rooms to house ten thousand elves here, maybe, though I’ve only seen a few ways in or out. One, maybe, was discreet enough, but it opens just beneath their king’s rooms, and he is there often enough to make that a poor choice, not to mention that beyond the landing is only more of the forest, and I have no clue on which direction we might take—”

“How would you know how often that tree-shagging wretch is in his chambers?” The question came on suddenly, and there was bite in it to trip her up (though the surprise of it would have done as well—Thorin hadn’t spoken through the whole conversation until now, and she had not expected being interrupted). Bilba fumbled for a moment, her slim brows pinching and her nose crinkling in confusion. She hadn’t… He couldn’t think she… No. _No_ , that was far too silly, she told herself, even for an oaf like Thorin to consider.

“Well, you _know_ , I’ve been watching him,” She offered after a beat, and shifted where she stood to lean back slightly upon her heels. “When he calls out one of the Company to talk to, that is. It was how I tracked them all down, at first, just waiting to see where they went. And one time I supposed perhaps that he would come to _you_ to talk, rather than bring you out where you might try to make a run for it, not that I imagine you’d get terribly far, but all the same. So I followed him when he left, and saw where he went. It seemed a proper thing to do, to keep track of where your… your _enemy_ is, wouldn’t you say?” It was a half truth, perhaps—she didn’t at all consider the Elvenking her enemy (and she told herself once more that she did not _consider_ him at all, thank you), but she _had_ attempted to trail him once or twice thinking he might lead her to wherever Thorin was being held. Said dwarf however gave no response nor reaction to her claims, simply continuing to stare at her, those blue eyes, sapphire-like in hardness as well as color, boring into her as if he could cut whatever insight he sought from her with the very blade of them.

“Aside from that, I paid attention to how often he took council, and bothered to listen to his scouts’ reports as well when they were given. You know,” she charged on, determined to make the stubborn dwarf understand how very busy she’d been in trying to assist them. Some of the complaints and claims he’d levied against her at the start of their journey—useless, weak, a burden—still pricked at her morale, and they had left her defensive against his judgement. “If we _mean_ to get back on our way, I imagine we’d care to know that our business with the spiders seems to have put them into a frenzy. The elves send out hunting parties almost every day of late. There’s talk of orcs as well, sighted on the borders, and I know I don’t need to tell _you_ who that might be still tracking us.”

That at last seemed to rouse Throin from his darkly pensive state, though it did not do to improve his disposition. His scowl alone could kindle flame if there was tinder about, she was certain, and was quite thankful that it was not directed at her this time so much as what ill news she brought. “We will need to move swiftly once you free us, Mistress Baggins,” he rumbled at length, “And armed if we can be. You’ve seen no sign of our weapons, our packs…?” And of course she had looked high and low for them, but not a one of them found. The elves had secreted them away, and what few supplies they had, along with all their blades and mauls, and even the map and key among them. Thorin was not happy to hear it, but seemed assuaged when Bilba pointed out that finding _him_ had taken precedent. He made very clear, however, that that should be her next task; aside, of course, from reporting to the others that he’d been found, and running any messages to him that Balin or Dwalin, or his nephews, or any of the others might have.

When she asked him if he had thought of any sort of plan, or knew anything that might aid in freeing them, she was sad to learn he had less to offer than she’d hoped. He seemed almost hesitant to voice what thoughts he did have, and those he shared came slow and at great length, and Bilba thought that maybe he was perhaps ashamed that he had no better ideas than any of those she put forth, which was quite silly. Kings, she had supposed, knew when to look to their advisers to find solutions or give expertise, and while any other time she would not have dared to think of herself thus, in this case she was, she supposed, as close to an expert on the ways and means of moving about the fortress as any of them.

At one point when all talk of sneaking through the gates seemed to be leading nowhere, Bilba mentioned Balin’s plan, that perhaps they might strike a deal with Thranduil, for surely he could not be so cruel as to hold them forever—there must be something that he wanted. Of course, she’d heard plainly herself how much the Elvenking both feared and hated the dragon, and doubted very much that anything the dwarves might muster to offer, presently or as a future promise, would sway him. The idea seemed foul to Thorin as well, though more because of his distaste for Thranduil and not because he thought it like to fail. His blue eyes flashed in fury even as she suggested it, his fists clenching at his sides, and for a moment she was reminded of his wrath upon the path through the Misty Mountains and quite quickly made sure to point out that she was against the idea, and would tell Balin that it was out of the question.

“I would not trust the _great king_ Thranduil to honor his word, not should the end of all days be upon us!” He snapped, silencing Bilba and leaving her quite ready to slip the ring back on, expecting a swarm of elves to descend upon them at any moment for his shouting. One hand dipped into her pocket as she hissed to him for quiet, her eyes locked firmly on the door despite the fearful sight that the dwarf, wroth in his fury, made so near at hand.

“Please, Thorin, you must keep your voice _down!_ Surely he cannot be all that bad—he’s kept the company fed and warm, and not locked up in the dunge—”

“He lacks _all honor!_ ” Thorin snarled, face dark and eyes aflame with the memory of past slights. “I will not have you speak of the _kindness_ of elves to me, you who has not seen their selfish cruelty! _I_ have seen how they treat those they would call _friends_ , hobbit, and you would do well to choose _your_ friends with more care, or else—!”

But it did not matter what ‘else’ Thorin was apt to imply, for Bilba did hear footsteps then, quickly heading for the room and the belligerent king inside. In a flash she whirled, shoving past the dwarf where he had come up behind her, looming in his intimidating way, and ducking back behind the desk. With a quick fumble and flick of her fingers she found the ring within the folds of pocket-fabric, and whispered, “I’ll be back once I talk to the others!” to him before she slipped it on, vanishing completely, and not a moment too soon. Before Thorin could even reply, his eyes only just registering that she had simply ceased to exist as far as they could tell, the door flew open, three elves glaring in at him as he seemed to rant and bellow to himself.

As Bilba slipped deftly past them and into the hall, scuttling quickly along in the shadows to make her way towards the stairs, she hoped that they would not be to terribly unkind to Thorin for his outbursts. He’d been completely ridiculous, of course, too stubborn and belligerent, and he’d overreacted to any talk of the elves being reasonable by quite a lot, but she supposed he had more cause than most to act so monstrous about it.

Still, she would not be shocked if the next time they spoke it was through a barred cell door, and not across a tidy, tiny guest-room.

* * *

**_TA2941, September 22nd_ **

Bilba had not managed to return to Thorin again after their abrupt parting three weeks prior, and in that same time had seen very little indeed of the rest of the Company as well. She was forced to realize that she had been terribly clumsy in her sneaking and unsubtle in her burglaring upon spotting the elven guards that had been posted at each dwarf’s door, never moving but to trade their place for another at the end of their shift. She still found chances to slip in and out of their rooms when meals were brought, but even those interactions had been made short, and more than once she’d had to forgo the attempt, or else ended up quite trapped alongside Glóin and Óin or Dwalin and Balin for two or three days before another chance left her with room to slip out again. And no such chances at all came to reunite with Thorin, for he had _two_ guards at his door at all times. For all her attempts to sneak in, even his meals were brought and delivered with a swiftness she could not match, and by the time she stepped forward to duck through the door it was shutting again.

The pantries and kitchens seemed less easy to snatch and snitch from too, more crowded and with foods left out upon a table or a shelf less long. At first she had attributed that change to the growing populace—of late more and more elves seemed to arrive to the Halls: civilians seeking refuge from the spiders and orcs and other creeping dark things of the forest, which she knew were yet increasing in number thanks to her occasional spying on the scouts when they reported to King Thranduil. The hallways had grown busy and it took longer to get about in safety, and the elven cooks worked all the faster, no longer lingering over their craft and fussing from pot to pan to oven and leaving her time to snatch a mouthful in passing. More curious yet was how locks had appeared on the larder doors, and often it took several hours of patient waiting at hand for Bilba to have a chance to filch from them, when at last some chef came by to gather ingredients.

Bilba had never had quite the _passion_ for food that most hobbits had, and when she wore the ring her hunger seemed even less, but still she knew that an apple or a crumb of cheese, or a lone mouthful of stew every second or third day would not do. It was rather like being back in the dreadful infested part of the forest again, and it left her feeling weak and sullen. The dwarves as well could not save their meals for her—with it impossible to visit them with any regularity, leftovers would be sussed out well before she had a chance to collect them. Even when they were taken for questioning there was no chance to bother, for as the elves had escorted Thorin that day nearly a month ago, in numbers and surrounding him, the elves now did for all of them, from the ancient Balin to young quivering Ori. Bilba could not get close, nor speak to them without risking revealing herself.

Those she _had_ found time and chance to speak to had been greatly heartened to learn their leader had been found, and Kili had wept into her hair to hear it, though he had later insisted he had done no such thing, and she had gamely gone along with it, patting him on the head and offering him a handkerchief (which she had pilfered from the elves, of course). Unfortunately that had also caused them all to begin pressing Bilba to launch whatever master escape plan they seemed to think she had, and would not hear of it that she still had no idea about just how to free them all. An invisibility ring was fine and well, but of little use when there was only one of it and thirteen loud, clomping, grunting, comparatively clumsy dwarves.

Another barrier to her efforts came directly from the Elvenking as well—and by that, it was more that he himself was the barrier, especially as her own heart had seemed to align with him rather than her more sensible mind.

For all that she did her best to ignore his presence, avoiding going near either the Great Hall or his chambers, she often found her feet carrying her towards them if she let her thoughts wander even for a moment. Like a magnet seeking its mate, the strange supple pulling sensation beneath her breast had fixated upon him, and it spun like the dial of a compass, ever pointing her to where he was within the fortress. Even in her sleep (what of it she could steal, that was; without the sanctuary of the dwarves’ rooms and Nori and Ori’s coat pile she got very little rest over those long and tiring weeks) she was not free of the odd yearning desire, and he came to her in dreams that felt like memories, or else like nightmares, and she was unsure which frightened her more if she were truthful. The deep contentment she felt when she allowed herself to simply watch him as he moved about his realm warred with her desire to see the quest through to the end, and it left her searching with even more alacrity for some means to depart the Elven Halls. To stay much longer felt to her that it would surely doom her to want to stay forever, and that part of her seemed inclined to want that very thing was most frightening and confusing of all.

But not everything had gone ill for Bilba in those weeks. Her frantic search had eventually returned her to the cellar where she had slept after learning the truth of the hairpin’s origins—the hairpin which ever since had found its spot upon the Elvenking’s head, of course—in hopes of finding rest. Instead she had seen a quite wondrous route for departing the elven realm, for in the center of the main room there, amid crates and barrels stacked high and wide all around, was a trapdoor. The lever she had spotted in passing before caused it to open, and through it the elves rolled emptied barrels, to drop into and float away upon the river, though just where it led remained a mystery to her.

It had taken her some time after seeing the trapdoor to realize it might be of use, and even when she did the idea seemed a risk. Not to mention she still had no way to get the dwarves down to the cellars either. Either way, it was more than she had otherwise at hand to consider, and so she made sure to memorize the way between there and the rooms where the dwarves were kept, and she learned a little about the frequency of the guards’ patrolling where it stood to cross what path they might take in getting there.

Eventually she had found their packs as well, though little was left of them when she did, and none of them had a single weapon, not even a cooking knife to be found. They had been piled in a small store room just as far from the Company as Thorin had been, and seemingly forgotten. Her searching turned up a number of personal effects within them: spare clothes; a pouch of tobacco, nearly empty; Ori’s journal where he’d stuffed it beneath a travel-stained blanket at the very bottom of his bag; even Glóin’s locket was present, set upon its own coiled silver chain atop his waterskin on one side of the shelves.

A faint layer of dust upon the articles had been proof enough that they would not be missed immediately to Bilba, and she’d made quick work of moving them down to pile in the nook where she had drowsed before. Glóin’s locket went into one of her pockets for a time before she chose instead to wear it, afraid that it would slip out, and Ori’s journal she stuffed beneath the single loose floorboard she had found and managed to pry up, determined to save those items even if all else was discovered and reclaimed by the elves. A good deal of it she was forced to leave behind as well, having no way to hide thirteen dwarves’ effects (for the packs they had lost so long ago at the river crossing had been recovered too, and she found them stacked neatly beside the rest) and taking only what she judged most important. Probably the dwarves might disagree, but Nori’s coin pouch jingled loudly any time she even thought of moving it, and while Thorin’s map and key were the most important of all (the former ended up tucked inside her shirt, and the latter added to Glóin’s locket around her neck) bringing along Bombur’s pot and ladle was just out of the question, even though she knew how dear they were to the large fellow.

All that success left Bilba feeling quite pleased with her efforts for a few days, and even though she was barely able to catch a wink of sleep, or find a crumb or crust of bread to eat, she resumed her plan-making with vigor. The dwarves were daily growing more despondent, and the glimpses of them she caught and snatched whispers here or there left her impatient even with herself for letting them linger so very long in captivity—no, there was simply no time to waste. Autumn was getting on as well, though the elves would say it was already done, and the Fading season upon them, and the dwarves had a deadline to make if they meant to take the hidden passage into the mountain. Time was swiftly flowing past, much like the river below the trapdoor, and with it was brought a curious sense of expectancy to Bilba. A sense that all the hair on her neck and across her feet was standing on end, and a faint buzz that seemed to fill the air around her like a cloud of static.

Something was going to happen. It felt like a storm creeping towards the horizon but not overhead just yet, laden with fat raindrops and readied thunder-drums all waiting for the first blinding flash of lightning to spur them on. Yes, soon—some chance or opportunity was building, she could just feel it! It hummed through her from the ends of her toes to tips of her pointed ears, leaving her subtly trembling even as she crept about the halls, like a coiled spring ready to snap from the barely-held energy. It made her antsy, even less patient than she had been before, and reckless too after a fashion. _If we don’t escape quite soon, well, it won’t much matter anyway if I’m caught, will it?_ _The time to enter the mountain will be past, and who knows when the next Durin’s Day will be after that!_

Determined to succeed at last, and perhaps grown slightly desperate by what waning time remained, Bilba turned her feet towards the central halls of the fortress, which she had so studiously avoided of late. The reports from the scouts to their king were never cheerful, always of more and more spiders, and it had disheartened her. As well she’d found the sight of Thranduil far too appealing, and while she would gladly lurk about to watch him for hours, she had had no time to waste, and so had denied herself even the _chance_ to fall under his spell—for that must be what it was, some elvish enchantment to ensnare her, or anyone else who looked upon him. If she was to gain information, however, that would be the place to do it. _I’m sure you can manage to keep your head for a few minutes, can’t you?_

It took longer than she’d expected to find her way there, for the halls were busier than usual. Even with many of the elves of the forest coming to reside within the safety of the fortress until the danger from the south had passed, it had not before been so full of eager rapid steps, and more than once Bilba had to duck to the side or down another hall to avoid being trampled. At first she thought perhaps that the danger had increased, that the orcs would soon be upon them all… but when she took a moment to look, she found not scowls but smiles on many of the elves’ faces, and several were even singing, or bearing forth armfuls of cloth that glittered with beads alike to diamonds, or clutched silvery lanterns that shone as they swayed. Indeed it seemed something was very much afoot, though for all she listened as she kept on her way, she could not make out just what that was.

At last she reached the Great Hall, and ducking past another busy throng of elves, she clambered silently and swiftly up to the same perch she had used before, the bend in one of the live roots that twisted like a column through the chamber. The Hall still shone with beams of light cascading down from the cavernous roof above, though they seemed dimmer than she recalled; it was hard to tell through the pale washed out version of the world the ring presented her, but the difference was enough that she noticed it. And with that change as well she spotted pale globes of light, crystalline gem-like structures that shone from within from every side, hanging like stars or drifting like fireflies about the space. There were too banners and garlands being woven around the pillars of living stone and draped in hanging arcs beneath the rootways that spanned the gaps between the stone terraces. Up upon the throne (which was presently empty, to her simultaneous relief and dismay) she saw faint shimmering, and with a second look realized that the mighty antlers which spanned above it had been draped in fine pale gems, so fair and subtle in design that at first they looked only like a sheet of frost, come to cling to every point.

Now any hobbit worth her salt knew a festival when she saw one being prepared, and that thought set Bilba’s heart to hammering once more. A festival might be just the thing to leave the lower paths unguarded, and give them a chance to escape! From what she knew about the parties of the wood elves, they promised as well that many of their number would be distracted, busied with their legendary merrymaking. The thought of what delicious foods they must be preparing made her mouth water, but she knew she would not be at hand to taste them. Already she was clambering down from her post, determined to be ready to leap into action when the moment came—and shoving away the mental image of herself dancing beneath the stars and singing with the elves. _Time for that later, Bilba Baggins! Get the dwarves out first, and then you can daydream all you like as you float down the riv—!_

Her furred feet hit the stone of the path below, and she whirled to dart off down into the tunnels… and froze, only by luck drawing up short from running smack dab into the towering figure of the Elvenking, who stood now less than a foot behind her.

He was arrayed in long robes of shimmering fabric, interwoven with cloth-of-gold and silver, though it was hard to mark the shade of it. His pale blue eyes were not fixed down upon her or her shadow (and thank Yavanna for that small mercy), but over her head towards where the elven folk all worked and wrought to fashion the Great Hall into its proper festive state. The faintest of smiles lurked about the corners of his lips, and she felt her breathing hitch as she drank the sight in. She had almost forgotten, in the days she had so studiously avoided him, how fair he was to behold…

But then he moved, shifting to stride forward, and Bilba threw herself aside so as not to be trampled underfoot. He seemed unaware of how close they’d come as he stepped out into the hall, voice raised to command or guide the elves’ efforts, how near to disaster things had been. Only after some long moments, when Bilba was sure she had not been spotted somehow or noticed, did she peer out from behind the base of the root column, and with a quick glance (which she seemed unable to deny herself) to where he stood, long white-blond hair tumbling down to the small of his back, take swift flight away in a beeline for where the dwarves were being kept. “It must all be ready for tomorrow,” his voice echoed after her down the stairs, and she told herself the shiver that swept up her spine was only because she was already imagining how cold the ride down the river would be.

* * *

**_TA2941, September 23rd_ **

_Mereth-en-Gilith_ , the Feast of Starlight, had never been one of Mindonel’s favorite festivals, though it was generally well-favored among Thranduil’s people. As _Iavas_ slid into _Firith_ , the days of _Enedor_ gone past in haste, the Elvenking and his subjects made ready for the holiday as best they could. Still their borders were edged with danger, and the shadow from the south seemed to grow longer, reaching to grasp more of the forest beneath its sway each day… but for now it was securely held at bay. Already there was enough upset among the elves that had come to reside within the fortress, having left their homes out beneath the trees behind for the safety of stone walls; giving them anything but the most that he could stand to give would be a disservice to them, and Thranduil would see them happy as well as living, if he could manage it.

No sign nor rumor of dwarves or men approaching the Lonely Mountain had come to his ears—he had at once upon intercepting Thorin’s band sent out scouts to watch the roads and countrysides; sly hunters swift of foot and sharp of eye, to report to him on any signs of movement in that direction. The dwarves within his halls had grown slowly resigned to their captivity, though still they refused to speak upon their plans. Thranduil had to admit that their loyalty to their leader was commendable… foolish, pointless, but commendable.

There had been many fewer reports of _mischief_ in the Halls as well: no murmured tunes (though still his ears were ever alert to hear that singing voice again), no missing meals, not a single footprint or sign of passing. It left the Elvenking dissatisfied, for he had been and was still certain that there had been a fourteenth, hidden member of the group of dwarves. Perhaps, he’d reasoned when all his countermeasures produced no results, no captured sneaking thief, they had given up on the rest of their fellows, and made off into the woods. It was reasonable to think they might have tried to do, but there too he would have expected them to be noticed—the forest around the Halls was rife with sentries, and war-parties coming and going at all hours. And it wasn’t as if the mystery person could just turn invisible after all.

He had as well expected the dwarves to turn upon their accomplice. More than once he had felt upon the cusp of it, the right prodding questions and turns of phrase leaving those he had called forth seeming pensive, or of a dark and suspicious mood. Thorin of them all he had foreseen giving up any could-be traitor to his cause, but though each time they met the dwarrow glared fit to kill at the golden pin upon Thranduil’s head, he never spoke; not of the thief, nor of anything else, having retreated into sullen silence.

Still, Thranduil was patient, and his guards were mindful. If some unseen burglar was yet within the Hall, they would be found; no mortal could go without food for long without becoming desperate and careless, and his kitchens were well-watched. If they were gone, however, there was no more risk to the escape of his _guests_ , and he would wish them well in finding the edge of the forest before the spiders or the orcs or his own scouts found them first.

So though all had not gone quite as he had hoped, the Elvenking found his spirit undimmed, undaunted by the darkness growing daily around him. New verve and vigor had taken root within his heart, and he would not allow that creeping foulness from Dol Guldur, nor the shadow of the dragon’s mountain, nor even the continued obstinance of the _naugrim_ to weaken his resolve and turn him from his chosen course. For reasons numbering as many as the count of his subjects (and then one more, he had mused in quiet idle delight) he had cause to continue the fight, and bear out the burden of defending and providing for them. He wanted them, _all_ of them, to be _happy_ , and to be _safe_ , and to know the world as they had been meant to know it—though for now it must be from within the bounds of the forest.

And so the Feast of Starlight must be had. Although danger lurked closer by the day, such delights as the festival would do yet more harm were it to be forgone. Thus, as bright and glittering as ever, it _must_ be had.

He had set his servants to work preparing the Halls, and making ready the forest above. The Feast of Starlight was a celebration of the falling of the leaves, with which the coming of winter dropped to feed the forest floor, and in their growing absence was revealed the wide heavens, full of stars, above. The elves of the forest had ever best loved the light of the stars, more than the sun or the moon, or any other luminescence, and it was among their greatest delights to be able to see them shining clearly above. Few among his people preferred those other feasts and fetes that came with spring or summer, and so he would strive to make this holiday the brighter, to become a heartening memory they all might carry within them, should darker days than those of winter next come to pass.

Now on the evening of the feast, Thranduil found himself walking the quiet lower halls of his dominion, awash in waking dreams as the revelry began overhead. Legolas would already be there, he was sure, and Tauriel as well. Their friendship had proven to be a harmless thing, and the Silvan elf would have his eternal gratitude for being family to his son when he had not. They would no doubt expect him, even come seeking him before long, but for now he found himself enjoying the restful quiet of the emptied pathways and silent stairwells.

Much had been on his mind as well of _other_ things of late. Legolas remained adamant that he should take action about discovering his new intended, but Thranduil had insisted that there were more important issues to be dealt with first. That did not mean he did not _want_ , however; that he did not yearn for such a meeting. More and more his curiosity and desire had begun to even bleed into his dreams, until at last none were spared to dwell on other things.

Many and varied they were, at first, but then all had been as one. In them in his mind’s eye he roved down the halls of his kingdom, always searching for something he could not name and did not know. The world was strange and vaporous in form, as if he could simply breathe and blow away a wall or door, and the odd washed out shades of the world made it seem even less real than he knew it must be. Sometimes he found himself running as he dreamed, and a sensation of being chased, hunted, grew behind him to drive him further and further down into the depths of the fortress. Other times he himself was the hunter, circling ever closer to whatever unknown prey he sought. It made little sense, and was unlike to every other dream he had had in his nearly seven millennia—but he knew his own home better than anyone else, living or dead, and he had recognized those hallways where his dreaming mind wandered to over and over.

He had found no time to inspect that stretch of passage, not with with preparations for the festival, not with the orcs swarming near at hand, not with the sudden and wonderful hours he spent in only his son’s company. He had kept patrols moving through it, the same as all of the other halls near where the dwarves were being kept, but his guards had turned nothing up of interest at all. Only now, when all else were gone to celebrate, and he was not yet missed by those who would look for him, when those warriors and soldiers that were next to face the foes of the forest had been assigned and dismissed, and were long still from returning to report, only _now_ had he had a moment to inspect them himself.

He had descended the stairs, just as he had seen within his dream, and turned this corner and gone down that passage, as he recalled. The stone pathways stretched out of sight, dimly lit and hushed. Empty. No sign leaped out at him as he passed along them, no flash of insight came. He let his thoughts turn to his dreams once more, summoning them forth even as he strode along, but there was little different within them than what he saw before him. There was nothing there that led him to any point beyond this one, and eventually he let the dream flow away again, his eyes fixed once more firmly on the waking world and not the world of visions.

Nothing but empty halls and quiet, and the flickering torchlight. Distantly he could just make out the strains of the harps and violins of his people rising in song to lull the sun to rest and call forth the stars, and he turned towards the stairs again. Sometimes, perhaps, strange dreams were just that, he supposed… dreams. With only the quiet rustle of his robes sliding over the stone stairs to be heard, he began to ascend towards the distant revelry.

...and froze upon the stair, hidden in the shadow of the wall, eyes wide and ears alert as frantic footsteps echoed out from one of the side passageways. And with them—voices.

“Aw, not so close! Tha’s the third time y’ve stepped on m’foot, Bofur!”

Dwarven voices.

“Well it isn’t like I meant t’do it!”

Several of them, and in places they weren’t meant to be.

“Did ye find any of our weapons, lass?”

Thranduil narrowed his eyes at that—he hadn’t known any among the dwarven group were female. Then, it always had been difficult to tell, what with the beards and all. The talk of weaponry was more important in the moment though, and he nearly took flight to summon his guards to collect their wayward number before they got into too much trouble. But the voice that responded in turn was not what he expected, and it left him rooted on the spot a second time in so many minutes, heart racing behind the cage of his ribs—for it was the same voice he had heard singing from in the gardens, and laughing in his dreams the last fifty years and more.

* * *

“If you lot can’t be _quiet_ we’re all going to end up back in those rooms, so if you wouldn’t mind _please_ shutting your mouths until we get _out_ of here, I would be _greatly obliged!_ ”

Bilba was about at her wits’ end, all but ready to simply leave the dwarves behind and make her own merry way out from the Elvenking’s halls. From the jump it had been like herding cats (except she was utterly sure that herding cats would be easier than this, you only needed a bit of fish or ham to wave about and lead them on, after all!) to get them all moving anything like quietly, and even then, after a month alone in the halls with only soft elven steps around her, they sounded like a stampede of cattle, all shoving and tromping along down the halls, which _echoed_ with the sound of their passage.

She’d found a stroke of luck after leaving the Great Hall the day before, and was praying now that it carried through. Down from the upper halls she’d gone, back to her hiding spot. Nothing there had been touched, which was a miracle enough, and then before she’d left to swing back towards the dwarves (as she’d hoped to try to talk to Thorin once more, confer with him on what to do) she’d been delayed. The keeper of the keys had come down to meet with the butler, Galion, and she’d hidden behind one of the empty barrels as they spoke. She’d overheard their plans, which it seemed involved trying out several of the heady new wines which were meant for the king’s table during the feast, and an idea had sprouted forth in her head. She’d escaped the cellar not long after the gaoler had gone again, and though she’d hoped to meet with Thorin, or Balin at the least, it was Glóin and Óin she’d ended up chancing to be able to pop in upon.

The ginger dwarf had been delighted to have his locket back, though Bilba had insisted she keep it until a new chain could be found to safely hold Thorin’s key, and she’d even managed a good long nap before the return of the guards had spurred her to leave again, eager to see if her plan might work. She found the gaoler and the butler where she’d hoped, emptied tankards before them on one of the cellar tables, and with deft fingers plucked the keyring from his belt. It took both hands wrapped about the mass of keys to keep them from jingling as she sped back up into the halls, but thankfully it seemed that most if not all of the elves had gone above for the celebration. Even those who were to stand their posts outside their captives’ doors had taken a turn to go, and by luck or fate, she found each one unguarded.

And so from room to room they’d gone, each freed pair of dwarrows resulting in slower going and louder fumbling, and poor Bilba’s heart was racing fit to burst by the time they turned down the hallway where Thorin was being kept. She’d slunk ahead, using the ring when she was out of the Company’s sight to scout, and had seen his door as well unwatched, but that didn’t mean that no one might come upon them. “The guards could be back at any minute, you know,” she continued with her whispered haranguing, and turned back to wag a finger under Dwalin’s nose when she heard him suck a breath to speak again. “You’re lucky I had a chance to get you lot out _at all_ , now never mind your swords, we’ve got to get Thorin and _go_!”

With the pack of them all properly scolded down to faint grumbles, Bilba turned to hurry on ahead, her wide and watchful eyes darting to each doorway, every passage they passed and any staircase landings. It almost seemed too easy, now that they were at it. Too convenient and quick. Still there was no way to go but on, and so she went, her tail of stamping, stomping dwarrows behind her.

In two more turns they’d reached Thorin’s room, and the third key on the ring sprung the lock. The dwarven leader seemed deep in contemplation when it opened, not even bothering to look up, and no doubt thinking it was only an elf come to take or leave a meal. The joyful cries of the Company, however, all of whom had bunched in close and now were feasting upon the first sight of their king (and uncle, in some cases) they had had in weeks, certainly got his attention though, and Bilba was treated to the sight of the mighty Thorin Oakenshield nearly pitching off his chair into the dirt before he caught himself.

He was on Fili and Kili in a moment, all three clutching each other tight and being hammered across their backs by hands and fists of their gleeful companions. Only Bilba lingered back, wringing her hands and looking up and down the corridor for any sign of movement. “Please, boys, you’re going to bring the whole forest down around our ears!” She finally was forced to intervene, grabbing at Thorin’s arm and tugging him towards the way down to the cellar. His gaze when it fell on her was searching; hesitant and wary, and perhaps no little bit unhappy to have been plucked away from his sister-sons, but finally he nodded, and with a “Let’s go,” charged on, leaving Bilba to scamper to catch up, and then retake the lead. _Even if he_ **_did_ ** _know where we were meaning to go, I wouldn’t let him find the way with a compass and a map!_ She ducked ahead of him just in time to divert their course down a twisting stair, and sighed a breath of relief when he did not insist on directing them on where to go—she for one still remembered him telling Gandalf he’d managed to get lost, _twice_ , on the way to her house in the Shire.

Down, down, down they went, and as they went what need for quiet she had impressed upon the dwarves seemed to fall away, and with its loss came speed. By the time they reached the cellars they were all but running, and no matter who heard them pass. That freedom was so near at hand, just moments off even, had set them all to flight, and in a tumble they spilled out from the landing to pace and circle like trapped animals around the stacked and emptied barrels.

“There’s nowhere else t’go!”

“It’s a dead end! The hobbit’s led us astray!”

“We must’ve got turned aroun’ somewhere!”

“If this is some joke, burglar, I’ll give you over t’the elves m’self when they come catch us!”

The dwarves swiftly devolved into scrambling about the place, searching for any suspected hidden entrances, or else glaring daggers (or begging with wide sad puppy eyes, as was the case with Ori) at Bilba. It was chaos, and she nearly had it right then and there, knowing that the gaoler and the butler were still snoring away to the sweet dreams of too much Dorwinion wine only one chamber over. She swatted away Glóin’s hand as he reached for her and ducked around the ginger dwarf, grabbing him by the arm and all but hauling him towards one of the barrels. “If you’d all just _listen_ for a moment, the way out’s right here!” With a shove she pushed him towards the open side of the wooden tub, and then glared around at them all with her hands planted squarely on her hips. “Into the barrels, then, all of you!”

Of course, that demand, and the realization that they were meant to be shipped to freedom like cargo along the river, did not go over well. A new level of volume crested as they all began to complain and shout, and it was all Bilba could do to keep her own head and not just shout right back. Some of the dwarves seemed to see the value of such an escape, but most were quite unhappy,even once Bilba offered to pack them in as best she could with straw and what bits of cloth she could find at hand. Only once Thorin cried out, his booming voice cutting through the noise, “Shazara!” did they all settle, and staring ‘round at him watch as he first gave Bilba another long and searching look before at last moving to slip himself into one of the barrels.

She made quick work after that of getting them all packed away. Most went easily enough, though most as well complained all the while. She remembered to fetch Ori’s journal, and stuffed it into his hands right before wedging the lid onto his tub with a grunt. Hopefully the barrels would be watertight enough—she plugged all the holes she could find in them, but even with their lids on tight she worried. _It would be an awful way to end_ , she thought grimly to herself as she pressed the lid on Fili’s barrel into place. _To be trapped inside there, unable to see or move much at all, and have it slowly fill with water around you…_ She shuddered and forced the image from her head, and then hurried to finish packing the rest of them. There was no going back now, and no way to know if it would work or not until the thing was over and done with.

Her pulse was still racing as she sealed the last lid on and stepped back towards the lever. Her skin still carried that faint hum of anticipatory energy, like static clinging to you after shuffling across a carpet. They’d made such haste in getting this far, she almost couldn’t believe that they were about to succeed. They were about to _escape_ , at last, and it had all, somehow, come out right to make it happen. She’d honestly, to the depths of her bones, been sure that they’d be caught, or end up in another predicament they’d have to wriggle out of, just as had happened the whole journey so far. But it seemed like, for just once, things had come out right.

As she reached towards the lever, one hand went to her pocket, to the ring nestled there within the fabric. The river ran quite wild from what she’d seen, and even with the pocket buttoned tight, there was a chance it might slip free. It’d been so very useful so far, saving her from danger time and again. Just the sort of thing one needed to creep about a dragon’s lair as well. It would be a danger to wear it down the river—if some trouble befell her, no one would be able to see her. But… on her finger it would be safe, wouldn’t it?

She pulled the golden band from her pocket at the same time as her palm cupped the burnished knob at the top of the lever, and with a sharp tug sent the barrels tumbling, one after the next down to splash into the water. She watched them roll, one, two, five, ten, thirteen, out of sight, and then sucked a breath. There was only a moment or two for her to leap through the passage once she let the lever go, and she would rather have a lungful of air than go plunging in unready. She turned the ring with her spare hand, taking it between her fingers and thumb, ready to jam it onto her other hand once she released the handle. _You can do this, Bilba. Now, in three, two, one…!_

A hand, larger and longer of finger than her own, closed over hers atop the lever, grasping gently but with such firm force that she could not even let the handle go if she wished to. Her heart launched itself up into her throat and she let out a squeal of alarm, whirling with a jolt towards the elf that had crept silently up behind her. In her wild turn her grip upon the golden band slipped, and fumbled it. Even as she lifted her eyes to meet his so-very-pale blue ones, which seemed to widen in surprise at the sight of her, she felt it come loose, and sail into the air.

* * *

There was no time to summon the guards, Thranduil had realized even as he stalked after the oliphant herd of dwarves. Not that it mattered, seeing as they were heading only deeper into his Halls, and not towards any of the doors or gates that led outside. They would be rounded up before long, his soldiers were due back in mere moments… but he found himself quite curious. Who was this woman who had aided in their escape? Who had lurked in his realm unseen and unsnared for so very long? He’d followed the sound of her voice down into the lowest level of his kingdom, though even if she had been silent, the dwarrows she surrounded herself with would have given her away with ease.

When they reached the cellars he paused, once more ensconced in the shadows of the stairwell and out of sight. He listened as they squabbled, as they clattered about the space like animals only just realizing they were trapped, caught and penned like sheep. He’d felt his lips curve in a smile at their frustration—they were fools, all of them, to think to escape so easily from his realm. His sharp ears could pick out the sound of movement on the levels above—another five minutes and the guards would be upon them, and drag them all back to their rooms, their accomplice included.

“If you’d all just _listen_ for a moment, the way out’s right here!” The sound of her shouting over them all broke through the clatter then, and a beat later, “Into the barrels, then, all of you!” The Elvenking’s triumph died in his throat, and he all but leapt down the stairs towards where they stood. The river… they meant to escape by the _river_! If he could only catch Oakenshield, keep him prisoner, there was still a chance the quest might fail…! He reached the landing just as the last of the barrels went rolling out of sight. _Too late… I am too late!_ But what cry of fury built within his chest escaped instead in a gust of breath, for from the corner of his eye he caught a slight movement.

A lone figure, one hand still upon the trapdoor’s lever, stood staring after where the barrels had vanished. Long tumbling sunshine curls hung past her shoulders, withal they looked unwashed and haphazardly tied away from her face, and though she was short quite like a dwarf, he knew at once that she was not one. Neither was she a man, nor an elf, though he could see the edge of a pointed ear peeking through her bound hair. She’d pulled something from her pocket, and now was mumbling to herself, eyes fixed on the opened part of the floor, taking measured breaths… about to jump into the river after them, he realized.

It was too late to recapture Oakenshield (though already he meant to send his swiftest elves out after the barrels), perhaps, but this one, their accomplice… that one he could yet catch. And he was very curious to find out just _why_ one who was clearly not of Durin’s folk would risk herself, her very life, to aid the vagabond people… With rapid steps he crossed to stand behind her, and reaching out he grasped her hand as it moved to release the lever, holding both firmly in place. A quick bolt of energy zinged through him at their contact, as if some bit of static had hung about her fingers and passed to his, and while it surprised him, her shock was far the greater. She cried out in alarm, and whirled around as far as she could with him still holding to her tight. Her free hand spasmed upwards, and whatever it was she held went flying, though he found himself unable to track its progress as it soared.

In less time than a breath he _knew_. Summer sky blue eyes stared up at him, fear and surprise, and no small amount of recognition flaring in them as their gazes met. A shade both intimately familiar to him and yet alien, for he had seen those eyes shut forever long ago, and never thought to look upon them again. The face around them was lined with exhaustion, and smudged with dirt and dust, but still he drank it in like a man dying in a desert who had found salvation at the edge of an oasis. A different face. A _new_ face… but the same eyes, still flecked with starlight as they had been a thousand years before, their constellations shifted only slightly to one side, and staring back at him in endless wonder…

And then she looked away. And the spell was broken.

He could see the reflection of that hurtling, glittering object she had fumbled in her eyes as she tracked it, could feel as if from a distance her hand slip free from beneath his own. She reached out, caught it, clutched it close. As she pulled it to her chest, the flickering torchlight caught a glint between her fingers. A glint of _gold_ , so pure and fire-touched that it seemed to radiate light from in her hands, reflecting the flame’s light and the light of a thousand thousand more besides.

In a dizzying rush all sense of wonder which had come over him at the sight of her fell away, a splash of ice water sundering him from the moment of awe at seeing _those eyes_ again looking back at him, and trickling flowed down his spine in horror. He _knew_ that too-perfect shade of gold. He _knew_ that sleek band, which showed no marking from its making, having been crafted by far defter hands than those of any being besides the Valar themselves. He had seen the One Ring before, an Age ago, clutched in Isildur’s hand just as she now held it, as if it were precious beyond all measure to her.

And he remembered it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Thranduil being forever haunted by the War of the Last Alliance is straight canon. From Unfinished Tales, Appendix B: The Sindarin Princes of the Silvan Elves—"A long peace followed in which the numbers of the Silvan Elves grew again; but they were unquiet and anxious, feeling the change of the world that the Third Age would bring… But there was in Thranduil's heart a still deeper shadow. He had seen the horror of Mordor and could not forget it. If ever he looked south its memory dimmed the light of the Sun, and though he knew that it was now broken and deserted and under the vigilance of the Kings of Men, fear spoke in his heart that it was not conquered for ever: it would arise again.”
> 
> There is no real information on how quickly or noticeably the Shadow fell over Amon Lanc to make it into Dol Guldur. Probably Sauron took the fortress as it was and used that as his base instead of ruined it as shown in the movies. Either way, I doubt it happened overnight, and would have been more slow and subtle at first to not draw attention and thus be checked. Canonically Sauron lingered there and gathered strength for just over a thousand years before Gandalf chases him off the first time (NOT the time we’re shown in the movie) but I can’t imagine Thranduil would have taken that long to move his people northeast.
> 
> As to his choice to move “beyond the the forest river, with the barrier of the rushing water which evil’s power had never managed to fully master the corruption of”, I drew on passages from The Silmarillion, from the Ainulindale—“And it is said by the Eldar that in water there lives yet the echo of the Music of the Ainur more than in any substance else that is in this Earth” and then later, “Melkor hated the Sea, for he could not subdue it.” Many of the Teleri elves, which Oropher and through him Thranduil were also had an affinity and love for water (see Legolas’ desire for the sea after hearing the gull’s cry in LotR). And, really, running water as a deterrent to evil is a fairly common trope, yeah?
> 
> In the book, Bilbo and the Company are in Thranduil’s halls for several weeks, not days. They were not treated badly, being—"...put in a separate cell and to be given food and drink, but not to be allowed to pass the doors of their little prisons” (The Hobbit, chapter 9, Barrels Out of Bond). Thorin was “shut… in one of the inmost caves with strong wooden doors… [The elves] gave him food and drink, plenty of both, if not very fine; for Wood-elves were not goblins, and were reasonably well-behaved even to their worst enemies, when they captured them.” (The Hobbit, chapter 8, Flies and Spiders). I did my best to blend book and movie canon, but they're very different at that point, tonally.
> 
>  A note again that elves reckon time differently than the rest of Middle Earth, and their calendar has six ‘months’ (aka seasons) with five gap-days (like Lithe/Yule in the Shire). Their seasons go spring, summer, autumn, fading, winter, stirring, so while the rest of the people of Middle Earth would still call late September autumn, for the elves the season of fading begins on September 21st, after the three gap enedor days.
> 
> The Feast of Starlight is not a canon holiday for the elves, and is only in the movies. However, given the elves in the Hobbit were at that same time of year having a great feast, it seemed silly to exclude it. We don’t get any details about the Feast of Starlight (or the unnamed feast from the books), but we know the elves love starlight—“while they dwelt yet silent by Cuivienen their eyes beheld first of all things the stars of heaven. Therefore they have ever loved the starlight” (The Silmarillion, chapter 3, Of the Coming of the Elves and the Captivity of Melkor). They named themselves the Eldar, the ‘star-folk’, and those among them that went to Valinor, “even among the radiant flowers of the Tree-lit gardens of Valinor they longed still at times to see the stars” (The Silmarillion, chapter 5, Of Eldamar and the Princes of the Eldalie). So celebrating the falling of the leaves to reveal the stars makes sense, I think.
> 
> Bilba sealed the dwarves in their barrels because honestly the trip down the river would swamp open ones, as well as make the dwarves obvious targets for any elves watching the waterway.
> 
> Mell nín - “my beloved”  
> Mereth-en-Gilith - Feast of Starlight  
> Iavas - “autumn”  
> Firith - “fading”, as regards the season, not the spiritual type of fading.  
> Enedor - “middle days”; known as the enderi in Quenya, these three days fall between the seasons of Autumn and Fading on the elven calendar. I could not find a given Sindarin word for those days, so I took “en(ed)” for “middle; middle, center” (see: enedwaith “middle-folk”, ennor(ath) “Middle-Earth”) and “aur/-or” for “day; sunlight” (see: edinor “anniversary day”, penninor “new year’s eve”) and, tada!  
> Naugrim - dwarves, lit. “stunted people”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely anxiouscrab, Thaliaiwe, & Lumenne, who are honestly a terrific support to me, utterly wonderful, and I could not ask for better pals OR betas!!

**_TA2063_ **

_The shivering silence that hung over the expanse of dark and dim-lit trees split, cracking like a sheet of northern ice sliced free from its glacial home to thunder, cascading and crumbling into the black-green sea. Faces fair and many—though far fewer still in number than they had been even a century before, there among the woodland realm—turned skyward in one terrible wonder, and cried out at the roiling clouds twisting and boiling above the horizon. The storm had risen up in an instant, coiling like a snake about to strike—tenebrous and unnatural… and then dispersed. In a rush it scattered as if the breath of Manwë himself had gusted it apart._

_One by one the elves, who all had hunkered low to the ground, or else broken for the sturdy shelter of the carven halls of their king Thranduil beneath the hill at the sight of that black tempest, now slowed and stopped, rising to stand and watch as then came slender rays of golden sunlight from between the parting clouds. They strewed at first in pin-like lances, and then in broader swaths as the coverage broke apart and faded, the pale white-grey of the sky hueing to blue as deep as summer’s heights. A gentle ease at last began to come slowly over all who lived within the bounds of the forest and as well to those dwelling in the vales of Anduin beyond, as if all the world at hand were releasing some long-held breath, and birdsong stirred to once more filter between the trees in fits and spurts, and then in joyful tumbling strains that swelled into the cleared and opened air._

_But from atop his throne, the Elvenking barely stirred, nor seemed he to notice the change now rushing out like a tide over his kingdom, to cast back the shadow that had long there lain. Though new spring was coming already to bud and cleanse the relit lands about the dark tower to the south, it did not reach the frost of his heart, nor pull him from his sorrows. The losses of the world in the years before had not gone unseen by him, those done at the hand of the foul being that had at last been cast from the heights of Dol Guldur, or by those creatures serving it, but those losses were of comparably little weight or weft to Thranduil; he could not rejoice, and felt little gladness, though long he had sought to see the fortress of his father cleansed once more._

**_How many times_** _, he wondered as he sat in grim and stolid silence, deaf to the happy voices and songs of his people in celebration—_ ** _How many times had I sought aid in throwing off the Shadow’s grip? In casting down whatever foulness had taken root, and ripping it out to the last tainted leaf?_ ** _Indeed he now found himself, instead of celebrating and filled with relief, only bitterly considering how he had reached out to those powers beyond the bounds of his forest, who had the might to aid his people… and been denied, or else ignored._

_In truth he knew he had been slow to act, and his reclusive nature proved to his detriment. Few indeed remained the bonds between his people and any others, though some there were still by the second millennia of the Third Age. Yet, had the woodland elves not fought to the aid of others before? Not bled and warred and died for other causes? Causes which had been thrust upon them, and were not of their own making? That his own people’s needs had been forgotten and spurned in turn, merely a footnote in the considered greater histories of the world (when the Woodland Realm amounted to even that much at all) galled him, and had left him slower still to trust outsiders or their judgments, and the worth of their counsel._

_Now at last the darkness’ grip over his lands had been broken, and he found it did little much at all to ease the aching of his heart, nor snuff the burning flame of fury and regret that still ate at his thoughts. Though he rose from his throne, his face a mask of joy to mingle with his people and encourage their revels and delight to see the Shadow driven out, he felt near to none of their pleasure. Through the grim darkness that ever crept into his sight when he turned his gaze southward he could still see it—the tall black spire that had risen to thrust up from the heart of the fortress there, as proud and defiant as it had been ere what dwelt within it was cast out. No more might the fog of evil flow from its base, but it was still broken and twisted, still a wicked reminder of the taint that had sunk into that land._ **_It should be ripped down_** _, he thought, and caustic indeed was his thinking, and black itself with hatred. The poison of that place had been leached from the wound for now… but the limb itself was still rotten, and dark with decay._

**_Yes, torn down to the very stone itself_** _, he considered, even as he watched his people throng and hurry to prepare feasts and delights in revelry. The woodland elves might be safe for now, but it would not last, he already knew. It never did, and never would. Not until every last patch of black wickedness had been purged by light and cleansing, molten fire._

* * *

**_TA2075_ **

_The land around the foot of Amon Lanc still stank with the bitter scent of decay, unnaturally potent and carrying the foully sweet bite of disease. Though the evil was gone that had claimed the tower now rising overhead so high as to seem to scrape the clouds, its mark had been left on the soil and the stone it had sat upon. Uneasy silence hung about the place as the elves drew near, and from atop his great stag mount, Thranduil could feel the sickness of it creep, burning and cloying into his nose and throat._

_The elves had come with the intent to begin to clear the ruin of what dark works had been wrought there, and tear down the fortress—if it were not possible to remake it as it had been—to the bare hill once more. It was better to leave there nothing at all than an evil-touched holdout, even the ruin of one, and it had not taken Thranduil long to gather a small number of his people to approach the place with the hopes to see if it would be doable. He would not risk a large contingent if foul beasts still lurked about; better to take a small and stealthy fighting force to clear the space of threats before the proper work began. Those that had come were strong and swift, prepared to battle if the need arose, as well as keen of eye to assess the abandoned wreck._

_Instead what they had found seemed only empty stonework, crumbling beneath the spread of dark creeping vines, and the clinging smell of sickness that hung like a cloud about the place, and had begun somehow to even soak into the stone itself. Light filtered down through the trees and clouds above to splash in weak, pale patches over the masonry—it was not as brilliant there as it had been even a mile further north, the somber king noticed—and the birds and beasts had all gone silent as the elves drew near. Now only the faint rustling of leaves overhead remained, and even that sounded muffled and distant, as if from far away. At first Thranduil had thought it only a figment of his own despairing mind: it pained him greatly to come hither, the memory of his wife and his broken, forgotten promise to her unable to be cast aside, compounding upon the sense of loss he felt for what had become of his father’s dwelling. He had done poorly by them both, in the end, he knew that much, and now this meager attempt to either clear or cast down what was left of this place was all he could do to make amends._

_He had delayed overlong in seeing it done, but at last had chosen to begin. It was an inauspicious date, and one that brought great sadness and agony with it—for as dawn had broken, pale with early spring’s green-golden sun, with its first light there had come upon him the wracking pain of fire. It laced through his veins suddenly, whorling out from the left side of his face and neck to bite and burn as strongly in his memory as it had a century ago in his flesh. The anniversary of his wife’s death—and his own grave wounding beneath the dragon’s flames—ever summoned forth the pain again, but today, upon this centennial morning, it had been the worse for it somehow. He wanted to be anywhere but where he was, to hide away and suffer in cold and lonely silence, and to languish in his immortal, enduring regret; instead he took that burning pain and had lashed his intent and drive to it._

_He would purge Dol Guldur with as much fire as he still felt in his veins if he had to. He would not easily let his defeat a hundred years ago become the seed of his failure today._

_And so, quietly, the band crept towards the ruins, circling wide at first and then in ever-decreasing rings until at last they passed through that same wide-open gate that the Elvenking had once departed from so long ago, with the woman who was yet to even become his bride upon his arm and his father’s silhouette before him. Only then did Thranduil dismount the elk he had rode upon, his movements slow and burdened by his suffering, but determined. All sound now faded to silence as they passed the arch of stone into the crumbling courtyard, and crept to peer down abandoned corridors and past toppled statues with their bows half-drawn and blades at the ready in their hands. None moved within the fortress but their own forms and shadows, even at last when they clambered to the heights of the tower, or delved down into its dungeons. Still the elves stood ill at ease, and the sensation of eyes upon their backs grew stronger by the moment, leaving them watchful and on edge._

_It was to their credit that they were so swift of reflex and keen of ear, and patient in their wariness, for as they gathered ‘round the courtyard, where stood the first of the defaced statues and black tattered banners swaying in the faint chill breeze that whistled along through gaps in the stone walls, they all of them heard the sound of faint low rumbling beneath their feet. Like distant thunder over the horizon it boomed, deep and nearly below even their sharp range of hearing, but massive and forbidding, crackling like some wrathful beast’s laughter as it seemed to surround the group. It grew stronger, stronger, yet stronger still, until it seemed the world would shake apart below and around them; an earthquake, perhaps, though it seemed that beyond the fortress the trees of the forest stood somehow still and silently at ease._

_A dire, looming sense of dread began to wind about them, yet they refused to be deterred—until when a great black banner, stained with red like blood, which had been draped across the stone over the gateway arch slipped and unfurled at the ground’s tremoring. In a tumbling rush of cloth it fell, and as it fluttered to the ground, the shape it bore was revealed… a great red eye, staring back at them all._

_Not a moment later a great splintering snap rang out, and the ground yawned open beneath their feet, beneath the shroud, and the sound echoed off the trees and distant mountains as the molten light of the exposed depths shone forth. And with it came a distant but terrible laughter, and the screeching of fell beasts filled the air and rent at their minds. With a cry the Elvenking felt the pain of his old wounds flare higher, white hot and hideous as it slithered through his blood and bone. All the world bled away to blinding light, and he could hear an agonized scream within the sound of booming sundering stone—a woman’s wail, familiar and heartbreaking, that haunted his waking dreams mingled with the roar of dragonfire, deafening him to the concerned shouts of his soldiers as he staggered and then sank to the ground in a rictus of pain and terror._

_Entire walls and towers of the stone fortress sank into the chasm as it widened; trees long dead were thrown up by the roots to crash and split, their rotten hearts exposed; dust that had lay over the place in thick blankets for a thousand years and more was sent spiraling into the air, turning it thick and murky, and grating to nose and throat. More than one of the elves, for all their nimble agility, fell as well into the maw-like pits, vanishing into darkness or boiling liquid rock—their screams cut short by the raging growl of grinding stone._

_Thranduil barely registered the sensation of being hauled to his feet, of being pushed up, onto the stamping, snorting elk’s back; nor did he hear the frantic shouts of his fellows that sent the beast flying from the quaking epicenter of the tumult at a breakneck speed, northward into the woods. The booming clamor followed him away from the ruin even as the cries and calls of his company were left behind, swallowed up by the pandemonium... but neither faded the screaming—half memory, and half his own for the torment that wracked him—nor the heavy sensation of some great and distant eye, still fixed upon him, and laughing with the sound of doom at his torment, and his failure._

* * *

**_TA2460_ **

_A dark storm had come to roost about the peaks of the ruined remains of Dol Guldur—not Amon Lanc, the Elvenking had been forced to realize. It would never again be anything but Dol Guldur, for he had not the magic to cast it down, and none of the willing allies nor the spirit to attempt to sunder it following that disastrous first effort to reclaim it some few centuries years ago. The attempt from which only he himself had returned alive, but with such wounds of the spirit and mind as to have been nearly lost for good and for some time. His recovery had been slow and painful, for with the return of sense and waking came the awareness that his people had suffered, that yet more had died under his watch and serving his purposes. He had imagined the plan the reclaim his father’s house as a charitable one, done for his people, not for himself. But now he was quite self-assured: it had been a selfish motive in the end, not worth the lives that had been lost and the pain those left behind must now face. Their lives had not even bought victory this time, and he would be left to shoulder that burden (among so many others already upon his back)._

_Still, even in failure, it seemed he would endure. To fail utterly now, and leave the pain for his poor choices to fall upon his son, or the citizens of his realm… no. As long as there was breath in his lungs he would continue to strive to shield them all, to take on such a yoke of faults himself, even if its growing weight left him hard and cold._

_He gathered his people to him in the centuries that had followed, guiding them to build their homes near to his Halls, and further driving their isolation from the other races and families of elves. All the world may not have been their enemy, but they seemed at the very least content to let the woodland realm and its people recede from sight, to fade from thought and memory, save for those they still dealt with regularly (and few were among those numbers indeed). The years made the Elvenking, and his people with him, more suspicious and less kind, for they knew danger lurked around every corner, and had been taught by time and the slow attrition of their numbers that aid was slow in coming from those who were allies only in name, and not in deed._

_Now, less than four hundred years after a wandering wizard claimed he had cast out the evil thriving there in Dol Guldur, in the blinking of an eye for those meant to live forever upon and within the world, Thranduil watched as the gathering night draped itself once more around the black and ruinous tower to the southwest. Long had the ravaged, half-broken spire of it lingered like a blister upon the horizon of the forest, forbidden and forbidding, a termless warning to all who yet dwelt within the reach of its shadow. Less subtle than it had done before, the blackness soaked into the landscape, and it seemed that even as he looked on a great stygian smog rose about the base of the bald hill, flowing forth openly and unchecked; seeping into root and stem and stone to bleach the countryside in shades of bone and rot._

_In an instant of blindness from all but those who would be the first to suffer for its end, the Watchful Peace was broken. The Shadow had returned to Mirkwood once more, and it would be another five hundred years again before the ‘great guardians of Middle Earth’ deigned to drive it out again, leaving the Woodland Realm in that time to fester and wither—it’s people forgotten and overlooked by all but their mournful king._

* * *

**_TA2890 – TA2941_ **

It had taken a long while for the elven spirit to rise from where she’d been flung, there down against the long grass. The departure of the unborn hobbit’s soul was explosively energetic, and it had rocketed off in a green-gold burst of light, leaving Mindonel stunned both in awe and in concern—she could still feel the small sliver of her very essence that had flowed into the other spirit, and been borne away... For an uncountable length of time she lay there where she’d landed in consideration; and yet no time at all, for time was strange in Valinor, and seemed to flow differently than it was reckoned in Middle Earth. It was even less of meaning for the immortal, and the unhoused _fëar_ that lingered there across the land and within the Halls of Mandos. For a long, long time more she had simply sat and thought, staring up into the uncountable stars of the heavens as they wheeled and turned to mark the distant passing of days, and _felt_.

Through the deep core of herself, her essence, the foreign feelings had come flowing, a river undammed to flow over a long-dry riverbed, swirling to fill her in the wake of the unborn spirit’s departure. It was strange to feel again, really; or rather to feel in the way of living things, and not in the way of the dead and the formless. It was distant, less clear and definite, muddied and veiled by the divide between the living and the deceased, but it was sharp and complex and _powerful…_ and all of it was full of utter wonder. For so long that she had lost all sense of the month or season she sat, entranced by all the infantile pleasures and stresses that came flowing into herself from the newborn child, who she at length began to realize must share a sliver of her own _fëa_ to be able to affect her so deeply and across such a chasm of distance and state of being.

That was something of a frightful revelation—to be so intimately joined to someone she did not know, and to have formed that bond in error and not by conscious choice. True, she herself had been the one to reach out, to touch the naked spirit where it lay growing, and so the fault was only her own… perhaps the centuries of lingering unhoused had indeed left her forgetful of consequence. Of course she had had no way of knowing what would happen, nor how irrevocably changed they both must surely be for it, when she had extended a tendril of herself in wonder…

At once upon realizing what had happened, a faint guilt began to bud and gnaw in the bit of Mindonel’s heart: she did not understand what effect her intervention might have upon the child as she grew and lived, and she had not thought to ask the soul (and she had not even considered that the souls of the unborn might be conscious enough to reply) permission to reach out to her. But what was done was done, and whatever ripples of her actions had set in motion between them were now well out of the reach of either of their hands; a skipped stone, unable to be recalled as it sank beneath the surface.

Thankfully, time proved her greatest fears unfounded. Through the sliver, the spark of the Flame Imperishable which they shared, Mindonel soon realized that while all might not be as it ought, no harm had befallen the child for her own misdeeds. And the months fled into years, all of them passing with the faint but constant awareness of boundless joy surrounding the child’s heart, bleeding through their bond like a dim and distant star: remote, but warm and calming. Few were the moments of discontent Mindonel felt through their joined soul, and whatever land or home the girl had been born into must surely be one of peace and plenty (though she knew not where that might be, as she had known near to nothing of hobbits before passing beyond the veil of death, and knew little more now). Not once did the elf _fëa_ sense anything of true sorrow or hunger, or fear or pain through their bond, and it gladdened her as well as was a relief. Such things she herself had long left behind, for there was no mortal instrument nor immortal one yet known that could harm those who lingered only as _fëar_ as she did—and that was her chiefest and greatest of gifts in death—but that did not mean she was unaware of what small tendernesses befell the child. And when at last true grief came to the child it came to them both, no more than ten and two years hence. Mindonel felt the girl’s hunger, her fear and pain, her frightful worry and wracking chill through the long winter as if it were her own, and then she was afraid, for she had quite forgotten such feelings, and never even in her life known others of them as she felt them now.

When whatever time of woe had come, and the suffering of the hobbit gave way, thawing like a long winter so that all lingering terror and want faded swiftly to eager joy and the curiosity and verve of youth once more, they left behind keen worry in the elf-spirit’s being, and great sadness and trepidation she had not thought to know again in death. She had forsaken life and form forever, her love, her _son_ , for fear of strife and pain beyond her strength to bear. Eternal peace should have been all she knew from then on… but now, through her own foolish folly, she had lashed her very essence to that of another, and with that act she had returned some infinitesimally small part of herself to life, to shape and form (though within the _hröa_ of a hobbit), and no more would she be spared from hurt and fear, not until at last the child—poor, innocent, ignorant child, who could not know what had been done to her nor what she in turn now did, what all the mighty forces of evil could not manage to do, to _wound_ the _dead_ —grew old and passed on from life, or otherwise met her end.

It was a monstrous fate to befall anyone, but Mindonel could not, _would_ not blame the child. It was none of it her fault, and most likely she had no idea what had happened, what could be done through her… and why she was different, and in some ways even frighteningly unnatural.

Burdened with the weight of the doom cast upon her, the elf-spirit retreated within herself for fear, lying down to wander in a dreaming state in the gardens of the Valar. To escape as best she could, perhaps she sought. So unsettled was she at this strange new nemesis that her dreams turned willfully towards the events of her life—both the good and the bad—and she sailed on a tide of memory back to her own childhood, recalling songs and scents as clear as she had felt them in life, as if she could drown herself in the memory of days gone by, and better hide away from those yet looming ahead, which though for now seemed kind, were utterly uncertain.

From her fear however, dark tides of nightmares arose as well. When that black and icy tide came rushing into her mind, she heard from a great distance the bellowing roar of the dragon again, or saw the Shadow creeping from the south in a swarm of orcs and corrupted Men to do their dark lord’s bidding. But as she tossed and tumbled down the streams of thought and dreams, or fled before the wraiths of her past hurts, she now and then found herself accompanied. A gentle warmth seemed to fall upon her side, like she’d been struck by a ray of pale spring sunlight through a break in heavy clouds; a spirit stood beside hers as the tide drew them on, cresting waves drifting them from memory to memory. She could not see anyone there with her, nor hear them, but still she sensed at times that same, eager, boundless energy she had been so drawn to in Yavanna’s growing beds. To go into those dreams, both the joyous and the sad, the terrific and the terrible, with another at her side redoubled the delight of the good among them, and eased her fears and the sorrows’ sting. Nothing of those remembered moments changed of course, for history could not be rewritten, but now when she found herself facing them Mindonel felt that, perhaps, she had done so with a previously unknown and unsensed companion.

And those dark dreaming nights when the fear seemed at its greatest upon them, she too could feel warm arms seem to encircle them both—for the child’s parents were swift to fly to her side, and the perfect cozy comfort they gave to her as they held her close, wakened in her bed from some barely-recalled dream that was not of her own mind’s making, was so strong that it reverberated through that sliver of soul they shared to leave them both feeling safe once more. Mindonel herself had given such comfort to her own precious son a lifetime ago, and to know that the hobbit-child (who had become increasingly dear to her) was well-loved, to be able to _feel_ that love she shared with her family… to feel it peel back the memory of pain and death, to chase it off with the ease of lighting a candle and a faintly hummed lullaby, and find nothing but true and restful peace after…

The hobbit-child did not deserve to share in those pains that were not her own. She did not deserve to be forced to face Mindonel’s nightmares, to dream of her losses and regrets. It was all the elven _fëa_ could do to share her happy dreams as well with her, and like the child’s mother had done, croon sweet songs to her soul when it once again drew close at hand, a paltry repayment for the ill turn she had done to the innocent being.

* * *

The child aged in the blink of an eye, it seemed. The energetic, almost chaotic sensation of her spirit intertwined with Mindonel’s grew rounded and smoothed like a stone in the stream of life, polished with a sense of identity and patient temperance, although the hum of that wild and untamed light that thrummed through all of Yavanna’s children never fully doused itself. Like a fire banked low for the night, but ready to flare again with the right prodding, the hobbit-soul changed from that of a fauntling to one of an adult, even before Mindonel had quite realized it had happened.

Still the elf- _fëa_ drifted in her dreaming, though she sensed the presence of the hobbit less and less often at her side—their dreams growing disparate as their lives diverged. When at last they did converge, the hobbit-spirit come again to share in the memories she never should have been forced to endure, the _feel_ of her had changed as well. No more a fragile child to be swept up in a mother’s embrace, but a woman grown—a sister, or a dear friend, to stand beside her and cast back the nightmares together and with her own distantly-dreaming force of will. There was pride in the soul that carried the shard of Mindonel’s within, though not ego; and strength and deep resilience that was different from an elf’s. She felt pragmatism to shuck off the fear of bad dreams and hard days; clever wisdom and a creative mind; and a simple love of the world that stood as strong as any shield against despair within the quiet soul fluttering beside her own.

And _love_ there was as well of another kind. The timbre of it was different, the rhythm changed like a song that had been reworked, re-tuned and altered just so, though the words were still the same, and it was similar enough that it startled Mindonel to wakefulness when she realized it. The Flame Imperishable within her fëa blazed white hot in intensity, and across the world and veil of life and death, the pulse of it left Bilba sitting up stark in bed, her heart racing with shock and keen yearning desire. It was to be the first time the hobbit had realized that something inside her was pulling her to seek out… someone, though it would be a very long time yet before she began her searching, and longer still before she realized who she was meant to find.

But Mindonel, alone there at the heart of Yavanna’s Pastures, knew in an instant what she had done, the depths of what her meddling touch had wrought. There was too much familiarity to the pitch and yaw of how the soul sharing hers began to pull, straining in quiet moments as her own had done an Age and more ago. Too much of herself in the mix, too much shared between them, and the soft yearning, the shape of it even as faint as it was across all of space and time, was like a puzzle piece that fit too well. A casting of a key for the same old lock, in a newer, different metal.

It was utterly, unbearably _unfair_.

No jealousy came over Mindonel upon the realization—who it was the hobbit-lass’ heart now sang for, called too—but only sorrow. It was not that he would not be a worthy match, or that she felt he ought still to have been her own (and she would not, _could_ not dare to try to feel where the spirit bound to hers was likewise lashed to _his_ ), for she knew truly that the both of them did not deserve all the happiness that already Mindonel knew they might find if they were lucky, and fate kind—no, that was not why the _fëa_ again felt herself near to weeping upon the lawns of Valinor.

It was because, for all that she knew the hobbit-lass and he— _Thranduil_ , she could barely allow herself to think his name—would be chiefest among gifts to each other, and deserved that joy… it was not as it should have been. They had been given no choice, neither of them. For Mindonel’s meddling, she had stolen away whatever other fate of the heart might have been meant for the young woman, and bound his to share in Finwë’s Doom. Her own soul had lent its shape to cast the hobbit-lass’, and whatever perfectly unique parts of the child had been meant to be, at least some of them had been unmade, and forced to fit to the elven _fëa’s_ style instead. And while Mindonel in part wanted to rejoice, for Thranduil would not be alone now, his heart unmoored and mourning forevermore, and while she knew that what love the hobbit-lass might have for him would be profound and true, still some part of her was filled with sadness and regret, and shame for what seemed in her mind to be a subversion, a theft of whatever love or fate the girl had been otherwise meant for. It had been taken from her without her knowledge or consent, and there was nothing Mindonel could do to fix it.

* * *

More days and weeks and months passed, and through them all the elven _fëa_ continued to bear the weight of what she had done, finding some small solace in that the soul shared with hers felt mostly content and at ease.

In time at last there came a great grief to her sister-soul, fierce like steel and dulled only barely by the veil of death to seep into their conjoined hearts—and a young woman’s voice sobbing, “Goodbye, Da…” in the back of her mind. Mindonel watched from a low hillock within Yavanna’s gardens as a star above seemed to swell in its light, and then droop like a ripe fruit, before it shed one lone golden drop to fluttering fall down and splash upon the verdant lands. Where it fell the soul of a hobbit—larger and more robust with a lifetime’s experiences than any of the pale, growing spirits of the not-yet-born—bloomed forth like a rose, shaping into the vague form of a middlingly-aged hobbit man. From over and under the hills and all around erupted swarms of similarly luminous beings, fading into view as they sprang from root and stem, all short and stout, and all rushing forth in what looked to be a great cheer, yet the wind of which rose little higher than a whisper of the breeze through the tall grass as they began to embrace and spin and clap the newly-come soul upon the back with their ghostly hands.

Bungo Baggins had returned to Yavanna’s embrace.

* * *

A short many years later— _Too few_ , Mindonel thought to herself with great sadness—a bright-burning thrust of loss from her joined heart, and another falling star overhead heralded Belladonna’s passage into the Undying Lands. This loss struck the hobbit-soul meshed with hers far harder, and was much slower in fading—and to Mindonel’s unhappy shame, she found herself quite glad to be rid of the grievous ache of it when it was gone. Her own heart had ever been tender, and though the grief she felt was not her own, it burned as if it were, leaving the _fëa_ wracked and drained, her spirit guttering low in the wake of such potent emotions which had only dredged forth reminders of her own losses.

For a long time after, it seemed the shard of her spirit now re-embodied lay dormant. Blessed calm returned to Mindonel’s heart, though once calmed she found herself instead worrying after the hobbit who was bound to her. No pain or sorrow came through the link to trouble Mindonel, but neither came any great wonderment or joy. It was as if, somewhere, somehow, the hobbit had become stuck, frozen slightly in a state of bare contentment that burned neither too warm nor was let slip to dwindle too low. It felt slightly hollow, and there was a ring to it that chimed of deep loneliness kept well at bay by a stubborn strength of will. Beneath that too remained the now-muted sense of yearning, of want for somewhere and someone the hobbit-lass could not possibly know. Even that seemed dulled, half-smothered in the wake of her mourning for her mother’s passing. It was, Mindonel found, nearly as upsetting to her as the raw and potent emotions she had felt spilling forth before. _But surely_ , she had told herself then, _surely it cannot last._ The young woman, swiftly grown in distant Middle Earth, would once more find that half-wild ray of sunshine she had embodied in her youth—instinctively, intimately, the elven soul knew that the spirit half-shared with hers was a resilient one.

* * *

The emotional dam broke suddenly, bursting forth when at last it fell. At first the _fëa_ thought it was her own doing—another unforgivable misstep, for the glum nature of the hobbit’s soul had made Mindonel somber in turn, and heralded the return of her nightmares. The rage of dragonfire burning through her, through _them_ once more, had tolled the end of the placid emotional silence she felt. She knew at once that something had finally broken through between them; for the first time in some years she had felt the hobbit’s presence at her side as the dreams had descended into darkness, and with more vibrancy and solidity than had been there since the early days of her childhood. Mindonel still hated that her own pains bled over into the living woman, but for whatever reason it seemed to do the trick, and rouse her heart from its long winter of quiet. Almost on the heels of the moment she felt a rush of thrill, of excitement, of boundless and rebounding energy come rising up from the across the strings of fate; “I’m going on an adventure…!”

Whatever undertaking had befallen the hobbit, it seemed to do her good. The feelings still came through hazed and muddied, but with more regularity and intensity than they had done before. Mindonel shared in the echoes of the other woman’s heights of triumph and the lows of her fear. And even when the thrill of danger came upon her, she could not quite find it within herself to flinch from the tug of it—perhaps at last something of the hobbit’s resilience had begun to rub off on her, for inevitably the sting of terror would always fade back into a faint constancy of excitement, never once seeming to have lasting effect on that surprisingly hardy hobbit soul. No, nothing seemed to phase her overlong, and Mindonel was content to know that the young woman seemed to be moving on with her life in some form or other. The faint fluttering yearning in her had returned as well, and while it still prompted waves of reproach in the elf’s heart she could not be truly unhappy to see fate leading the hobbit in that direction once more.

With such a positive direction seemingly on the horizon, the lone _fëa_ was utterly unprepared for the most recent faint thrill of anxiousness flowing into her essence from afar to _surge_ , bursting into gleaming, terrible light within her essence. A sundering roar of raging flame drowned out sight and sound, and a mighty weight exploded into her being, to send her crashing, prone and shapeless, upon the grassy meadows of Valinor. In an instant she felt the hobbit woman’s fear as keenly as if it were her own in full: sharp and bitter upon a tongue she did not have, speeding a heart she did not carry to race and strain behind ribs she had not been caged within for near to a thousand years as her oddly hearty feet beat against cold wet stone for all they were worth. Something massive and dreadful shifted along the place where her soul and the hobbit’s were joined, turning as if to regard her, burning, watching, _pulling_ … and then, as quickly as it had all begun, the bond went still again, no more than the same ghostly half-impressions of sensations drifting along it as had ever done before.

Mindonel lay there trembling, cowering and dull-lit upon the grass for a long moment, the poison of fear slow to drain from her spirit. Something was very, _very_ wrong. _I… I must seek out the counsel of the Valar…!_ But before the scattered _fëa_ had time to gather herself or still the wild fluttering of the flame within her spirit, the shared shard of her soul blazed once more to light—blinding bright and molten, hotter than even dragonfire—and this time, it did not dim again so quickly.

It compounded upon itself, a fire roaring higher and higher, and in her mind it erupted into the shape of a great and luminous eye, lidless and staring across the sea, through rock and mountains and the cover of fog, past trees and the depths of the world to fix directly upon herself. It _saw_ her… and the shadow at the heart of it reached out, blazing up along the thread that joined her to the hobbit, like a great and grasping arm. A faint tugging sensation seemed to hook itself at the core of her, drawing like a siphon; slowly, and then quicker, more insistently into the far distance…

* * *

For the whole of the Third Age the Shadow had been rebuilding itself. From scattered wisps it rose, congealing in the dark recesses of the world where wicked things yet crept and plotted and nursed their black and hateful malice. Defeat at the end of the Age before had devastated it, left it formless and with very little power… but it had not been destroyed, no. And it could _never_ be completely eradicated, not so long as greed and willful blindness kept the peoples of Middle Earth from casting one lone golden ring into the fires of Mount Doom… and how could they, when it had been _lost_ for centuries?

But the loss of the ring was to the Shadow’s hindrance as well. It lingered long and formless beneath the earth and in deep places where no light of sun or moon or star could touch, unable to take shape or work its will beyond the most subtle of twisting in the hearts of mortals and fell beasts. Much of its power had been put into the forgotten ring, and it could never be whole again without recovering it. So for a time it kept to a level of influence within the world that went all but unnoticed. A thousand years came and went before its flickering strength had compounded enough to dare returning to the surface… and then, Sauron, in the guise of a mortal necromancer, slunk forth from where it, he, had hidden.

He claimed for himself the tower fortress of Amon Lanc. The elven structure appealed to him, and was well-placed within the deep south of the Greenwood, in striking range of the kingdoms of men and elves. While the elves that dwelt and delved within the forest were mere Silvan elves, and some few Sindarin numbers among them, he considered them unworthy of his attentions and ambitions. Their works and structures still were finer than those of men—as well as being near to where his precious ring had last been held by any hand, and thus fit for his use. In his arrogance Sauron overlooked the small reclusive nation of elves to his north, except to make mild sport of them for his slowly growing forces when they drew too near to his place of power, now called Dol Guldur, for his attentions were fixed on the fields and river to the southwest.

He and his Shadow, which ever pooled about his feet like a long and noxious cloak, were driven hence only once, when one of the wizards, the Istari who had come to Middle Earth at the behest of the Valar, came meddling into his domain. Still too faint of form to risk exposing the truth of his nature, Sauron fled into the east once more, leaving the tower empty… for a time.

He returned bare hundreds of years later, now certain that his ring would be found again in the area it had been lost. Deeply he entrenched himself, drawing forth dark creatures to fill the chasms and pits that had been rent about the tower by the stain he had left thereon, which wracked the very earth even in his absence. His strength had grown while he had been away in the far east, fueled by the hearts and aid of Men, whom he had strived to corrupt there in numbers, safe out of the sight and reach of those that stood to stop him. Now, once more in the guise of a mere mortal, he reached out his hand and called to the ring where it lay hidden—…

* * *

The creature that had found the ring was _weak_. Small and simple in mind and body, but strong of greed and covetous desire, so very strong… No Man nor elf nor dwarf, it was—this was something new. It was the creature’s weakness that unknowingly spared its race, for Sauron saw little use in turning his attention towards beings who were so small, both in body and in influence. But it was the wretch’s strength of greed that, after a fashion, spared the _world_ from Sauron’s return. For instead of bringing the ring to its master, the creature—Smeagol—hid away with it, so far from sight or mind that even Sauron lost track of him, and could not find the ring. He called to it, of course, but the creature only dug deeper and further from sight, cowering in isolation until he was so weak and wracked that there was little left in him to be taken by the ring, and greed had chipped away at his soul until there was nothing else left of him besides.

And so the ring abandoned Smeagol, for it and its master knew the creature would never give it up willingly, and its very weakness made it easy to corrupt but difficult to command. The next bearer would be keener, stronger, and the better to twist into following his dark will, both the ring and Sauron himself were sure—but not even the dark lord could imagine the unique gift that was about to be set before him, and slip the ring onto her slender fingers after finding it by pure accident.

Bilba Baggins as she once might have been would be the dark lord’s last choice, perhaps, to carry his ring—for she was both stout of heart and lacking any real desire for power. A simple hobbit, of a similar breed of creature as the ring’s last bearer, but innately different to her very core in nature and brightness of spirit. She would have carried the ring unthinkingly for decades with little ill-effect indeed, eventually giving it up willingly. It was a singular sort of strength, more akin to a weakness in the eyes of those who might value power over love, that allowed her to be one of few indeed with the ability to give up the ring, and _that_ Bilba’s actions would have sent the ring, and Middle Earth, down a very different path.

But the Bilba that now unknowingly donned the ring was different, not quite as she had been meant to be, and as the ring snapped the dark lord’s focus to her, Sauron looked closely, and saw _possibility._ A slender thread of power had been woven through this Bilba’s soul where none should have been. The spark of Flame in her heart roared higher than it ought to have done in any creature but the Eldar. And even more interesting, the string of fiery strength in her stretched outside her being as well… and fed into her like a stream from some source, far off in the distance; some deep well that never should have been accessible. _A linked soul; an elven soul, unhoused, unprotected by its hröa, and ripe with the Flame Imperishable_ …

The next time the halfling donned the ring, Sauron was ready. He had first designed and worked the rings of power to dominate the spirits and minds of the Eldar, and the One was meant to offer utter mastery of them for himself to control. It fit her less well than it would have done an elf, but far better than it would have done if she had been only a hobbit… but it was enough. It would do. Through the ring he reached out, the claw-like hand of his spirit grasping onto the shard that joined the halfling and the elf, and _pulled_. Raw strength flowed in its wake, like a rain barrel uncorked at the base and hurrying to spill as it flowed into him. Some drops perhaps were lost as he greedily drew upon it, filtered through the weak soul of the halfling as she wore the ring—but no matter. She was beneath his notice, little more than a vessel, a straw to leech the elf’s strength through until the well of it had run dry, and his own might been quickened and restored.

* * *

Mindonel lost all sense of the world around her as she lay, pressed flat upon the grass by the weight of the presence that had come rushing forth again to consume her. Some distant, detached part of herself thought that this must be what it would be like to be caught up in the midst of a great storm, full of roaring, rushing winds that threatened to rip you apart as well as beat you down. But whatever now raged about her was no force of nature—it was imminently unnatural. A sickly, black hunger that gnawed at her and seemed to draw wisps and licks of her very essence away to feast upon. And with it, always, was the vision in her head of some great and burning eye staring down at her, never blinking.

In fits and starts it came for her, a sudden striking assault that left her stunned and senseless every time. It would stop for a time, but eventually she would felt the shard of her soul blaze forth, and the awful, familiar drawing sensation begin again… and then continue, ramping slowly higher, higher, but higher still, leaving her bereft of thought or sense of self. Even if the _fëa_ had the strength to wonder at it, she could not have known what was happening or why. On some level, perhaps, she sensed that it must be connected to the hobbit lass—for even as her own feelings and memories grew fainter, bleeding into that great funneling of all her strength and substance into the East, then did the living woman’s own experiences come crashing back in to fill the gap: worry and wonder mixed into one, and swelling strain and exhaustion. Hunger and the ache of quiet loneliness that grew in tandem with strange thunderclaps of bliss-like joy.

The assault of foreign emotions mingled with the engulfing winds, and the looming terror of that burning presence so thirstily drinking as it raged against her was together so consuming, so overwhelming that as it all continued, for just a moment, just before, _at last!_ it was abated once more, Mindonel began to lose herself in it. In that flash of an instant it was the hobbit woman’s feelings and experience that felt the more real to her than her own, as if _that_ were her, and not this slowly draining, tormented spirit…

And then, blessedly, the moment shattered, and the exhausted and trembling soul was left in stark, nearly deafening silence upon the lawn.

* * *

**_TA2941, August 29th – September 23nd_ **

His strength was returning, building rapidly within the black ruin that was his soul. The little halfling had been a boon among boons, it seemed, her essence unknowingly joined—linked by mere fragments, a _parasite_ upon the immortal _fëa_ of a slain elf—to an unhoused and _unprotected_ spirit, who could neither resist his pull nor return to the shores of Middle Earth with warning. A turn of events that no one could have predicted, but all to the Shadow’s benefit. So long as the halfling wore the ring, he would have unfettered access… and he was growing _quickly_.

It was easy enough to whisper into the mind of the ring-bearer, to make her nervous and fearful enough to want to hide within the ring’s power. Who she was and what she meant to do while wearing it was of little interest, irrelevant and insignificant. All that mattered was that slowly the black heart hidden in the depths of Dol Guldur began to pulse and swell, drinking long on the connection the clueless mortal afforded it to the elf’s bared essence. Already the clouds were pulling closer, dimming the sun and deadening the forest around. Foul creatures sensed their master’s return so near at hand, and orcs and spiders and goblins and trolls alike had once more begun to roam, and raid, and threaten all the lands at hand. Their focus was as one with their dark lord’s, and the main of their aggression flowed towards the north—where the ring yet lay about a slender hobbit finger.

Yes, the might Sauron had leached like blood from a wound to feed upon had made him swiftly strong again, and with that strength came arrogance anew, and recklessness he would not have otherwise afforded. It turned his movements bold and blatant, and drew a more discerning eye than had been spared for the presence at the heart of the fortress before with wayward clues and ill-dropped hints. But when the wizard came, that grey old fool out of the west, Sauron’s pride was proved to be born of truth, and his renewed efficacy had left Gandalf trapped and at his mercy, his staff shattered and powerless. That had pleased the dark spirit greatly, for it had been the same meddlesome wizard that had run him out of Dol Guldur centuries before… and he suspected that he bore one of the Three Rings, which he had long desired to acquire. There would be time in plenty to strip him of it… for now, the hobbit still wore the One near constantly, and the power that line offered consumed his focus. He left the wizard caged and powerless, to die slowly, or else await his end when next the halfling removed the ring.

Of course, the White Council, those high and noble guardians of Middle Earth, were not content to let one of their own languish in captivity, or suffer a fate far worse. Already Gandalf had stirred their attention, his whispers chants unheard or ignored by his captors, to summon aid. As well at last the surge of evil at the southern heart of Mirkwood had begun to bloom, and what doubts some among the Council had clung to had been cast aside—they could not deny the Shadow over Mirkwood any longer. They’d come in force now, to Dol Guldur, where none of them save Gandalf had dared to delve before for any cause or reason. They mounted to the heights of the spire amid the fortress, bright and virtuous, full of righteous fury—and blinded by their own radiance of spirit to the danger they now faced.

In another world, another time, another version of events Sauron’s power would have been less ripened, as faint as fog upon the glass, and handily dealt with by the Council. Perhaps the dark lord would even have been again mistaken for a mere necromancer, as had been done before, or thought to only have been one of the nazgûl. But not this time. Now his spirit was strengthened, and had done so in unnatural, unknown ways, speeding him towards empowerment beyond what even Gandalf had anticipated finding there. No easy chase was given this time, the dawn coming slowly to scatter the wall of night. Flanked by the risen souls of the Nine, gathered once more to his side, Sauron burst forth in a wreath of flame, a Shadow made manifest, so deep and dark as to be nearly physical as it hovered just beyond the cusp of taking corporeal form. With sword and staff the Council had carved down the spirits of the nazgûl again and again, but such paltry weapons were no match for his power. Decrepit wizards and fading elves… what might could they muster before the dark lord himself?

They were _weak_. They… _that_ one… was _breakable_.

The Shadow’s gaze fixed upon the one of them, boring like pits of flame into the figure where they stood. The hiss and crackle of fire gave way to whispers around them, faint at first and then louder, more numerous and insidious as they shivered through the air and into the ears of one who thought themselves incorruptible. _Your fears were true, your suspicions about them apt, you have been so very_ **_clever_ ** _to see it._ Higher rose the tide of murmurs, muting the cries of allies and foes alike. _Only you are wise enough to hear, to see with eyes unclouded, yes—they would seek to supplant you, to build themselves up and cast you down, now, when you are most needed by the world. Only_ **_you_ ** _understand, could hope to know the truth, and what to do with it. Isn’t that what you’ve always known to be so? What you’ve always felt to be right, to be your_ **_due_ ** _as chief among them… Saruman?_

A flash of brilliant white starlight rippled through the area, beaming out from the tip of the tower like a lighthouse beacon. It shattered what ill thoughts and plans had begun to form between that foul mind and its target, searing into the shadowy form to pierce and rend it. In his rage the fire wreathing Sauron seemed to dance even higher, licking out dangerously close to the feet of the Council where they stood. It was a phial which the Lady Galadriel held, its splendor scattered forth the glowing radiance: the pure untaintable light of Eärendil’s star—the light of the Two Trees, still burning at the core of the Silmaril borne thereupon, and caught in the philter to shine in concord with the strength of the heart of the one carrying it.

“You have no power here, servant of Morgoth!” The elven woman cried aloud. “You are nameless, faceless, formless!” Their powers clashed, nearly flinging the others of the Council from their feet with the clap of it. For a long moment they seemed evenly matched, the light she cast forth able only to hold his darkness at bay, and not drive it forth. But then… no! He could feel from afar, the thread of potent energy flowing into his black form from beyond the veil in Valinor go silent, its constant humming croon dwindling to nothing. To the north, deep in the halls of the Elvenking, for no reason he could or would care to know, at _last_ the halfling had removed the ring, and severed, for now, their bond.

“Go back to the void from whence you came!” Galadriel’s command rent the skies, her gleaming white power flowing higher as his own ashy flames guttered, the source of much of his strength removed. He had been so close! With a piercing cry the spirit of Sauron flung himself skyward, hurtling away amid the clouds. To the east he went, and down, down into the darkness like a falling star, into Mordor where the shadows are. But with his cry rebounded once more the subtle and ensnaring whispers he had woven like strands into the ears and mind of the white wizard—the only one among the Council, in truth, who could not claim a ring of his own, and had long hidden what jealous ire he had carried for his grey subordinate’s possession of one… The Shadow slowly faded as it was cast out of the forest once more, the screeching roar of its passage dwindling like thunder vanished over the distant mountains. Like a sigh of exhaustion, the tension bled from those of the Council who remained atop the heights of Dol Guldur—but relief was the last of what they any of them felt.

“ _Dandollen hon_.” The words were bitter, falling like stones from Lord Elrond’s lips as the clouds began to break apart overhead. “Gondor should be warned. The must set a watch on the walls of Mordor—”

“No. Look after the Lady Galadriel. She has spent much of her power—her strength is failing. Take her to Lothlórien.” It was Saruman who spoke then, his wizened gaze still fixed upon the path through the sky where Sauron had passed along in fire and smoke. Indeed the Lady Galadriel had collapsed once the need of her might was gone, her strength sapped by the effort of casting forth the dark lord, who had been far closer to regaining his form than any of them had suspected—and none of them save Gandalf had even imagined it was Sauron himself, and not some lesser servant, before they had seen it. They had, all of them, been blinded…

A shudder shook through the tower, drawing all of their attention to its base as the stone began to crack and sway. All around the lower levels of the fortress, from the pits and canyons within its seat, orcs and spiders and foul things had begun to flow like water, fleeing in the wake of their master’s defeat or else spurred on by the echo of his screech, commanding them to rip and ravage. Held in Elrond’s arms, Galadriel still gasped and strove for breath, the ever-shining glow about her faded to nearly nothing. “Go, now!” Saruman’s voice cracked out again, whip-like in command, but still warm with compassion, or something like it. “Before we are overrun.” That at last seemed to convince the elves, and Elrond bore Galadriel up and away, in great haste and to the south, towards her home in the depths of the Golden Wood.

Saruman went with them, until they were clear of the ruin, and then turned away and to the east. He called out to them as he turned his focus once more towards the path the dark lord had taken. “Without the Ring of Power, Sauron can never again hold dominion over Middle-earth. I will go into the east myself to ensure he is dealt with… for now, leave Sauron to _me_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… would you still call it filler if it serves a purpose?
> 
> There’s very little info on Dol Guldur out there, and it’s very frustrating. Why did no one try to reclaim the tower after Sauron had been chased out the first time? Even if it had only been a human necromancer, or one of the Nazgûl (as the Wise thought it had been, per Appendix B of Lord of the Rings), it still seems like it would be worth their time to tear down once it was clear, or at least to reach out to Thranduil, who's land it was on, and who's father had built the base of the fortress originally, about. And even if Gandalf didn't go to Thranduil, I can't think on why Thranduil would have left it, a clear threat and bit of his history he really could have reclaimed, for hundreds of years. So, I chose to mix the account that Sauron left Khamûl, the second-strongest of the Nazgûl, to guard it in his absence, and the thought that Thranduil was probably still pretty torn up over Mindonel's death at the time. Sauron's fled from Dol Guldur at that point, but his power still holds sway there, and it makes it too tainted/dangerous for even elves (minus those with rings of power) to be there long. And honestly I couldn't otherwise work out how Dol Guldur got so ruined as to have pits and chasms for the orcs to later lurk in. Someone should have noticed all this going down.
> 
> As for Thranduil's scar flaring up, since he doesn't have it in the book, I adopted the idea that certain wounds (see Frodo's Morgul stab wound) pain the recipient on the anniversary of their wounding. Seeing as dragons are at least in part the creations of Morgoth, it seemed like an acceptable leap to make to think some of the greater fire drakes might cause similar effects with their fire—plus it would let me work in that part of Thranduil's history as was done in the PJ movies.
> 
> I’m not going to say too much about how things work between Bilba, Mindonel, and Sauron at this point. By the end it all should be more clear. 
> 
> I WILL say that the same way that Thranduil can sense that there's another soul meant to fit with his, Mindonel can tell that her soul's touch has altered Bilba's, and made it really only fit to match Thranduil's. Given that she willfully gave up her bond with Thranduil, she is not upset by this—she still loves him, utterly, but their bond is sundered forever, and she wants him to find someone to be happy with. On the other hand, elves take matters of pairing very seriously, and by their very nature would never attempt to force a relationship or bond, even if their feelings were unrequited (see Morgoth's Ring, Part Three, the Later Quenta Silmarillion, Laws and Customs among the Eldar). Because Mindonel's actions essentially (at least as far as she can tell) forced Bilba and /thranduil to be matched, Mindonel of course feels immense guilt over it.
> 
> The Watchful Peace - The period of time between Sauron's first flight from Dol Guldur and his return. Was referenced by Elrond in the PJ movies, but the time frame there seems to cover the whole of the Third Age.  
> Fëa - soul, spirit  
> Hröa - body, physical form  
> Dandollen hon - "We were decieved"


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely anxiouscrab & Thaliaiwe, who are honestly a terrific support to me, utterly wonderful, and I could not ask for better pals OR betas!!
> 
> Happy 5 months of this fic as well! To everyone who's left kudos or comments, or even just stopped in to give it a chance... thank you!! ❤

**_TA2931_ **

_Since her father’s passing, almost five years gone now already despite how fresh the loss felt, Bilba Baggins had found a sort of… displeasure in the holidays. It wasn’t that they were not as wonderfully fun and full of exciting games and songs and dances, delicious foods to eat and friends to visit as they had once been—they were all of that and more, of course! And yet… it seemed that ever since dear Bungo had been returned to Yavanna’s embrace, the feasts and fancies had only served to highlight his absence. More than once Bilba’d gotten caught up in the joy of the revels and turned to comment upon this hobbit’s dress or that one’s behavior to him, or to ask him for a dance… and found no more than empty space where she’d been so sure that a moment before he’d been standing, smoking away on his pipe and tapping a foot to the music while trying not to look too amused by it all._

_Then whatever delight and energy had overtaken her would come crashing down, tumbling into the low valley of sadness again, and leaving her somber and quiet. The music which had played so cheerfully before would turn sour in her ears, achingly nostalgic, like the sight of a party through a window when you weren’t invited in anymore. The first year or two she’d had to depart from the celebrations early, or else be caught weeping into her dinner plate. Neither course of action was really appropriately hobbity, but she was well accustomed to being the subject of the gossip mill, not to mention that such petty worries seemed small and simple compared to how deeply she missed her father at the time._

_But as the years went on, the crippling, clutching sadness she felt slackened slightly, and once more she found the holidays tolerable, if not enjoyable. Something—someone—was always missing, and that much would always be true, but she was finding that life went on, like it or not. There was still work to be done, and songs to be sung, and though all of Hobbiton felt for the Baggins family’s loss, they could not help but carry on with living, eventually catching up Bilba along with them in the flow. Time eased the pain until it was bearable most days, until it became a dull ache, all its sharp edges softened to roundness that no longer cut at her heart to inspect them, even if they were still weighty upon her soul._

_There was no such relief for her mother. Belladonna of course took it even harder, though no one had expected her to do otherwise. Most days she barely left the smial, and more than once Bilba had been surprised to realize that the gossip about how odd “that Baggins” had become was meant about her ma, and not herself. Their income as well began to suffer—not that the Bagginses needed to pinch pennies, of course, but it still remained that what investments Bungo had made, what properties he had managed the tending of, were going a bit to seed. And the Bagginses were not the only ones relying upon the upkeep of those properties and agreements, which were now unhelmed without Bungo’s hand upon the wheel. Belladonna had not even been able to bear entering into Bungo’s study for nearly two years after he’d gone, and by necessity it had been Bilba in the end to pick up where he’d left off (and found some comfort after a fashion in continuing his work)._

_Bilba quickly found that while she could rouse her mother still, and at times things seemed almost normal and as they had once been in the home, Belladonna was still undoubtedly failing. She alone was not enough to hold her mother to life. In years before Belladonna would always be wheeling and turning, skipping and singing and dancing through life with Bungo at her side. Even when his health had begun to worsen, she’d thrived enough for the both of them for a very long while. But now, now with him gone, it was like all the spark of life had guttered out of the woman as well, leaving behind a hobbit who looked and felt and moved like she was much older than her seventy-nine years. She’d still smile for Bilba whenever she tried to amuse her, to coax some sign of energy and excitement from her; still watched her dance and listened to her songs… but Belladonna never danced herself, nor sang, nor went out of her way to socialize._

_She was dying slowly, fading, some said—her broken heart bit by bit consuming her will to live._

_Bilba, of course, refused to accept that. She would not let her mother go without a fight, and she began making every effort to get her moving, to slip a thread of life back into her and help shake off the chill grip of woe that had wound about her. She began to insist her mother come along for the shopping, or accompany her to inspect this bit of land or that crop’s harvest. She accepted more invitations for them to tea, and sent out herself several, inviting over friends and family and even some of her more-tolerable, more-persistent suitors (with only a minor hesitation over giving them a sense of false hope), thinking that perhaps that might spur a response from Belladonna as it had done before. Ever she kept in mind an old saying of her father’s, clinging to its wisdom like a lifeline—“Where there’s life, there’s hope.”_

_But for all her efforts, more and more often came the days where Belladonna was unwilling to rise from her bed, staring up at the ceiling of the room with tears slowly tracking down from the corners of her eyes. Bilba would find her there when she did not appear for breakfast, and despite all her efforts, very often she could not rouse her mother for anything. It seemed the beginning of the end, and out of desperation (and with no little guilt for not thinking to do so before) she wrote to Lord Elrond to beg him for advice, if ever he had thought of her mother as an elf-friend. Fading was a mostly elven affliction, and though she was sure there were differences between that state and what had befallen her mother, in her dire need she thought that if nothing else he might have some sort of idea on what to do to prolong her life, or ease her suffering if that was all that was left to be done. She did not like thinking of that coming to pass, but at the same time she knew on some level that, were it herself who was now languishing alone without the other half of her heart… she would not want to remain longer than she needed to._

_She sent her letter off with the swiftest of couriers, and even then spent many days wringing her hands beside the mailbox waiting for a reply. By the time one came it was nearly Lithe, and Belladonna was no better than before. Bilba all but tore the package—for a small parcel had been sent back along with a letter—from the mailman’s hands, shredding it on the step as the other hobbit shook his head in wonder. The letter contained instructions, as well as condolences; the package held a few small bundles of well-dried leaves, twisted into little bundles which were meant to be steeped like bags of tea. The brew would, according to Elrond, do much to strengthen the body when food was too much for Belladonna to take in, as well as it should provide some amount of succor to her failing spirit. He also suggested that Bilba continue to sing to her mother, for music had ever been a sort of magic of its own sort, and her voice would be able to reach her mother even should Belladonna’s other senses fail._

_The tea he’d sent was made of a combination of two plants woven together in parts. The main of them she recognized as Kingsfoil, which was something of a small surprise to her, for the Shirefolk thought of it as little more than a weed. A moment later though that shock had faded, and a sense of understanding come flooding in. She ought to have thought of Athelas sooner, for it had many healing properties; why she’d forgotten how useful it was, and where she’d learned those uses as well, she could not recall._

_The other plant, which made up only a small portion of each nodule-like bundle, she also recognized… though she could not for the life of her say where she had seen it before to know it from. Its tiny pale green leaves curled slightly inward from their drying, and each portion was flecked with a number of tiny, fine golden flowers, so small and closely-budded as to look almost like one solid blossom and not several, their petals all folded into the shape of little hanging cups and unfaded even though they must have been plucked months ago at least. Elrond’s letter named it Goldenbell, as it was known in Westron, but her mind supplied ‘Mallos’ as well. Their smell was as sweet as a breeze off the sea, fresh and buoying, and that smell spread to the tea when each bundle was steeped, filling the kitchen with the smell of sunshine and clear water._

_The fragrant scent seemed to rouse Belladonna even before she’d had her first taste of the brew, and Bilba nearly wept to see some of the haze over her mother’s eyes roll back even before the cup was drained. Her mother sat up after some long moments, and seemed to blink awake as if from a long dream, smiling at Bilba and pulling her into a (still weak, still so very weak) hug. One cup at her bedside each morning, ideally ready before she even woke, seemed to do the trick thereafter, and though it was clear that Belladonna was still deep in her grief, she was not so near to passing as she had been before._

_Bilba sang to her as well; she sang as she had never sung before, pouring every ounce of her love and care into the notes, as if they alone might hold the cure to her ailing mother’s heart. It felt a bit silly at first, but once she saw how the tunes could distract Belladonna when her mind turned dark and woeful, how her smiles came more often, and even caught her humming along when no music had passed her lips in the years since Bungo’s passing… Well, it did not matter if she felt silly after that. Even if all it did was make her mother a little happier, she would have spent all of her hours singing for her._

_Things were better again after that, though Bilba did not let herself dally long or carelessly with only those supplies that Elrond had sent. There was enough within the package for at least a year, but among his notes on how to prepare the tea were those on how to produce more, and that process was a lengthy one. Kingsfoil, for all that it was thought useless by the hobbits, was fairly common, and she knew where to get her hands upon an amount of it (though surely the gardeners she got it from, not counting Hamfast of course, would be gossiping all up and down the row about now she was buying up weeds to feed to her ailing mother)._

_Finding more Mallos would be the trick, for Elrond had noted that it was native to the delta of the River Anduin, far away in the south of Gondor, and that obtaining it was ever a difficult thing even for elves to manage. It could be found about other watery areas, but not often, and not without much luck. To that end, she had few enough options. The river Brandywine was the only proper river of any size nearby, and probably her best bet to find anything of use… though to get there would take some days’ walking, and the thought of leaving Belladonna alone to tend herself for so long made her hesitant to plan such a lengthy absence. But… if there was even a chance of finding more of the golden blooming plant, then now would be the time to seek it out. Now, when even if Belladonna slipped back into her grief, she still might have some strength to last until Bilba returned to her side._

_She set the tea out where her mother would be sure to see it beside her bed with a kettle atop a small portable stove. She would not even have to get up to make the brew, and the fragrant smell of the box of herbs would, she hoped, be enough to keep her moving long enough to prepare it. She left strict instructions with Hamfast’s wife Bell to check in on Belladonna every day if she could, and in hushed whispers told her of the ‘medicine’ the elves had sent, confirming that she would make it for her mother if Belladonna failed to do so herself. Poor bell of course couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, but Bilba also got the feeling that it wouldn’t be quite the same to have a neighbor sing to her mother. It would probably be fine entertainment but… she left that bit out of her instructions, understanding on some deep level that it wouldn’t do the kind of good her own had done._

_And then, one bright late summer’s morning before she could change her mind, she packed up her walking stick and pack, kissed her mother’s cheek, and left for the distant river._

* * *

**_TA2941, September 23rd_ **

The faint warbling rush of the ring as it tumbled through the air, spinning and shining like a falling star in the dimly-lit cellar, was all that Bilba could hear in that moment. The roar of the rushing river below had faded to silence, and with it the distant shouts from the Company, dropping below the range of even her sharp hearing. Only the softly sucked breath, the tiny gasp of budding horror and recognition from the elf who still stood before her, his hand tight over hers, registered as she tracked the tumbling band. Every fiber of her being was strung taught with the need to catch it, to clutch at it, hold it close and reassure herself that it was _hers_ , hers and no one else’s.

Time itself seemed to pause in the moment, balanced perfectly on some great invisible edge and set to fall one way or the other; the ring hung just out of reach, warm and luminous in its terrible splendor. With a burst of effort that felt both entire and immediate, and yet distant, as if from outside herself and somehow barely any endeavor at all to do, she pulled herself free from his—Thranduil’s—grasp, her hands reaching out to snare the ring in one tight fist and then draw back to cling to it like a lifeline. Slowly her fingers uncurled from around it enough to see it, to know for certain that she’d truly caught it, and she stared at it through the gaps between them, her eyes darting to find any signs of damage, though she knew none would be there. The golden band seemed to flicker on her palm almost, beyond the reflection of the faint torchlight of the room which it caught; it shone with some deeper fire that was snared in its surface and which turned each flawless angle to liquid reds and oranges. Unconsciously she could already again hear the faint whispers it always fed into her ears returning, further muting all around her.

_She’d caught it. It was safe. It was_ **_hers…_ **

A sudden shout, cracking like a war-cry as it carved through the whispers and heavy veiling quiet, snapped her from the consuming spiral the ring had drawn her into. She could not make out the words, her ears ringing from the sudden shift in volume, and her mind scrambling ao that it could not parse the elven language for a moment, but she understood the meaning when Thranduil’s hand snapped forth to take her by the wrist, pulling her hands forth from where they had clutched her treasure against her chest.

“No! No, it’s mine, you cannot take it!” She cried out, clawing at the hand about her wrist and twisting, wrenching herself away. Her panic spurred even higher when her eyes again met his, still as entrancingly beautiful as ever, but now no longer softened with surprise and wonder. It was hatred she saw in those blue eyes.  _Yes_ , the ring whispered in her mind; _he wants the ring, he would take it and keep it from you, you knew that he was tricking you, that he planned to lure you out and then_ **_take_ ** _it!_

“ _Daro! Avo garo, perian!_ ”

_You must put the ring on, must use it, it will keep you safe, help us escape this place that would snare and keep us so!_

“ _Lasto beth lammen_! _Estelio enni, perian, mel—_ ”

_He lies! You will never hold it again, he will kill you before he lets us keep it, we_ **_must_ ** _put it on, now, now or he will—!_

The fevered mutterings of the ring suddenly twisted into a high, unearthly scream, snapping its hold over Bilba even as it lanced into her brain like knives through her ears. It—or something, _someone_ —was furious, was _hurt_ , and in one crystalline moment of clarity she nearly flung the ring from her hands, the very feel of it suddenly wretched and distasteful to her nearly beyond enduring.

But then she felt the hand about her wrist loosen, her arm instead being let free, and she jammed the ring out of sight into a pocket of her dirty and tattered waistcoat. The sound was not only in her mind, and neither did discarding the ring lessen its hideously agonizing sound—she forced her gaze up to find Thranduil’s face a rictus of pain, his teeth set and grit against the room-shaking screech, and his hands having flown to cover his far more sensitive ears. Like a crack of thunder the shriek lashed out, and she looked on in horror from between her own ear-muffling palms as part of his very face seemed to melt away, revealing twisting scars across one side, which pulsed red and angry at the sound that was only now beginning to fade. His eyes were pinched shut tight in agony, though he forced them open again as soon as the wretched sound began to fail, one piercing blue and the other a milky, ruined white, and both fixed upon _her_.

She was little better off in truth, and the furious howl had felt like it had poured ice water into her bones, and stabbed silvered shards through every fraction of her mind and soul before it began to peter out. The ring alone seemed vibrantly hot in her pocket, a bead of warmth even through the fabric, feeling as if it were burning into her flesh and still refusing to let her cast it aside or draw it out again, even for fear of injuring herself in the process. She could not set the ring aside… but the sight of the Elvenking in such pain as well, such desperate need reached deeper than the touch of dark power inside her could. For just a moment she found the will within herself to reach out to him, her now empty hands finding his elbow and squeezing. Still she feared him, feared he would attempt to keep her there, or take what was hers, and indeed when his hand snaked out again towards her she ducked away, releasing him without hesitation—but some part of her cried out against the sight of him suffering, and flared to brilliant light inside with the need to put an end to that torment if she could, even if that meant abandoning the ring, the quest, anything _but_ him…

He did not try to grab her again, but as the terrible scream at last fell away, diminishing like an echo over the mountains, he extended a hand towards her where she had lingered, hesitating, some of that same soft wonder returning to mingle with the fury and horror lurking in his eyes—the pale milky one slowly fading back to a whole and hale blue as his glamour now wrought to cloak his injuries—“ _An ngell nîn_ , Mindo—…” He seemed to pale at his own words, but forged ahead before she could respond. “ _Tolo ar nin_. Let me…!”

Everything in her was at war, half wanting nothing but to flee, and half demanding she rush to his assistance. It set her exhausted mind to reeling, and she felt that she were being ripped in two directions at once.

“…Thranduil, I… No. No, no, I can’t! I don’t… understand _why_ , I _can’t_!” The depths of her desire to comfort him, to go to his side and trust in him, to give _everything_ to him still confused and terrified her; that sourceless _need_ was more alarming and frightening perhaps than anything else quite could be, and combined with the other terrors the ring had wrought into her mind of late, it proved at last too much. Though her heart begged her to stay, she instead forced herself away, to run. Even when her feet wanted to stumble and stop, she angled herself towards the still-open trap door… and then through it, as she flung herself down, down into the raging river below, one slim fist thrust against her chest, her aching heart, and the pocket that yet held the ring.

* * *

For just a moment the world seemed to stand still, her tiny ( _agile, beautiful,_ ** _strong_** some part of his mind insisted even now) figure suspended on a wire over the dark gap in the cellar floor. Her golden curls had flung up in a cloud-like halo around her as she’d leapt, and her brilliant blue eyes, so heartbreakingly full of fear and confusion—of him, for him, _both_ —were latched on his as she soared out over open space.

And then the line was cut. And she was gone. The _ring_ was gone as well, his mind screamed a beat later. A faint echoing splash from bellow turned to jumbled static in his still-ringing ears, a fresh surge of terror gripping him, and Thranduil surged forth to grip at the wooden dropway’s edges, oblivious to how the rough wood splintered into his palms as his keen eyes darted about for any sign of her.

Below were rocks and jagged cutting cliffs, hewn smooth and flat in places so as to not destroy the barrels they turned loose along the river, but still they loomed dangerous and deadly for softer creatures that could not boast of skins of wood and iron to break upon. If the hobbit were crushed upon one the ring would be lost, he feared, though there were other reasons for his gasping breath of relief when at last he caught sight of her, bobbing with a splash and frantically paddling arms up to the surface. The water, white with foam as it raced through the narrow cavern, swiftly swept her away and out of sight; only at the last, right before she was drawn around a bend in the stone wall did she glance back at where he still crouched upon the cellar floor, blue and piercing and fearful… and then widening even more as distant horns sounding in the forest reached their ears, bouncing up the cavern tunnel. _Orcish hunting horns…!_

The foul guttural bray of the trumpets was answered a moment later by their sweeter elven counterparts, though Thranduil had not remained still to hear them. In a swirl of his robes he all but flung himself up from the floor, crossing to and racing up the spiral stairs even before the trap door at last swung shut, the creak and slam of the wood drowning out the rush of the river below.

Thranduil had barely made it a quarter of the way back to the Great Hall before he came upon a troupe of soldiers, all in equal haste towards the nearest exit from the stronghold. They drew up sharp before him, each with a face of intense determination to report and have his orders. It seemed that luck was still with him, for all that both the captives and their accomplice (the thief, the ringbearer, _her_ ) had escaped his halls. “ _Holo in-annon!_ Get our people inside and bar the river! Slay any orc you find—our stout _guests_ have escaped by the waterway, and they are the aim of this attack… but let the _naugrim_ in their barrels pass once the threat is handled.”

That order seemed to surprise the warriors; it was not well-hidden that Thranduil had meant to keep the dwarves in captivity until they at last cracked and gave up the information he sought from them. To turn them loose now, after weeks and with no results… he could see the confusion plainly on their faces. He did not wait for them to ask him why—every moment she, the _ring_ , was drifting further away, and closer to danger and the clutches of the dark beasts that served a darker master still. “Let the _naugrim_ pass,” he commanded again, already surging past them, unable to linger any longer in inaction himself. “But bring me the one with them! The halfling, a woman, swimming in their wake! Even if you must leave the dwarves to their fate with the orcs, you must save _her,_ and bring her to me at once!”

He barely registered the soldiers’ assent to his commands as he sped further up along the passageway, the walls of stone as familiar as the feel of the hilt of his own sword beneath his hand. It was a minor comfort to hear the metal sing as he slid the weapon forth from where it hung beneath the folds of his outer robes. He would not let his people be cut down, would not let the halfling escape for long, not let her be slain or taken before he could return her to his grasp, even if that meant letting the fool dwarves find their fates beneath the knives and swords of the orcs, or the fangs of the spiders that swarmed with them. No, what treasure she carried, tucked safely against her heart, was far more valuable than any king, or any dragon’s hoard.

* * *

The river was freezing cold, it seemed, already chilled by autumn’s touch as it surged up around her, spinning and swirling as it dragged her through its eddies and currents until she did not know up from down nor left from right. The waters were dark as night within the cavern, with no light beyond the faint distant torch of the cellar above to shine and light which way to go—though in truth there would have been little Bilba could have done at all against the rapids even if she knew which way was what. She was a better swimmer than most hobbits, but as hobbits were by nature fearful of water any deeper than a warm bath, and all had a tendency to sink like stones, that was a statement of very little merit. In truth she immediately felt the aching exhaustion in her limbs, her days and days of next to no food or rest catching up all at once and in the least favorable place, leaving her limbs feeling heavy and stiff, like they were made of lead.

But a bit of luck was on Bilba’s side that day, and just when she began to panic, to feel the air in her lungs start to burn and pound, and with a gasp come surging out in clouds of bubbles around her face, she was _drowning_ … her head broke the surface. She sucked a great gulping breath, spluttering and with her sodden curls hanging limp and wet against her face, but in the moment that gulp of cool, earthy cavern air was the most delicious breath she had ever taken. Though it felt like she had been underwater for several long minutes, in truth perhaps only a handful of seconds had really passed, and she was shocked to see herself still within eyesight of the wine cellar’s trap door—a fast-fading square of faint warm light, silhouetting the figure of the Elvenking still kneeling at the lip of the tunnel before the river dragged her around a bend and out of sight.

Even against the battering whitewater and the sucking current, the feeling of the thread wound about her heart pulling taught, straining back the way she’d come, towards the one she’d left behind stood out sharp and cuttingly clear. _She was going the wrong way_ , it screamed, _turn around!_ The river’s roar was trapped by the stone walls it carved through, and the echo of its thunder drowned out the quiet choking sob that tore its way from her throat unbidden; the spray and splashing rivulets across her face served as a mask to hide which droplets were really tears. But she couldn’t have stayed, and still wasn’t sure if she truly wanted to, or if it was some magic making her feel that way. Even now the keen desire refused to fade, instead only growing stronger, more painfully insistent as the river swept her out into the brilliant daylight of the open forest.

A blasting horn shattered even the water’s boom, the harsh, garish sound terrifying and familiar, as familiar as the guttural snarls that followed it from the darkened banks, where whipping about to look she saw the twisted faces of orcs atop their warg mounts looming from the shade of night, racing to keep pace with the rapids and then surging ahead towards where, beyond short unseen waterfalls and foaming turns, she could just make out the smooth curve of the hindmost of the barrels, reflecting wetly in the pale starlight. It bobbed along low in the water—Bombur, her dazed mind managed to supply, his weight no doubt dragging the barrel against the shallower spots enough to have slowed him to the back. The rest had already disappeared further down the waterway, into the night, and even that last barrel seemed impossibly far away to swim for… but still she struck out for it, ducking beneath the surface once more when a crude, black-fletched arrow lanced into the waves mere inches from her nose.

It was barely any easier to keep her course now without the bright light of day shining through the water, nor to see the rocks before they came rushing up to crack her skull or bash her ribs. Their midnight escape did not make the swimming any easier, and the rugged bottom of the stream grew only rougher, more viciously littered with fallen logs and ripping stones without the sheltering stone cavern to contain and guide it. Each time her head broke the waves the sounds of screams replaced the watery garble—orcish snarls and elven war-cries, the hissing rasp of spiders and howling barks of the wargs, the whistling shot of arrows through the air and the clash of blades and shields. She had little time to sit back and float, to try to watch any of the happenings; the river kept the most of her attention, and when the combat raged closer to the water’s edge she was forced to duck and dart, exhausting herself by frantically dodging snapping fangs or knives, and even slender-fingered elven hands that struck for her like she were a golden-scaled fish to be plucked bare-handed from the waves.

It was chaos in its most basic form, all noise and motion and the stinging burn of water mistakenly breathed in as she was bounced off hidden outcroppings or half-sunken tree roots. Blacker shadows passed overhead in swoops—elves and orcs leaping from bank to bank to lash out against the other force, or being sent splashing to a watery grave with arrows in their sides or weeping from great rents in their armor, crudely made or fair. Through it all Bilba drove herself onwards, forcing her arms to rise and fall, her short legs to kick and kick and _kick_. She lost all sight of where she was upon the water, how near to the waterfalls or the shores, or even the barrel she had aimed for. From breath to breath there was only the need to keep moving, the need, the instinct, to _stay alive_.

An abrupt _thump!_ of her head against something hard—but less so than one of the punishing stones, and less sharp than the arrows or swords of the battling forces, more rounded than any shield—drew her from the singularly focused, almost mechanical paddling. _The barrel!_ Barrels, in fact; she spotted at least ten more all clumped together as she scrambled up the side of the hindmost, her nails scraping at the wet wood for purchase. All of them looked to still be as well-sealed as they had been when she had sent them off, as far as she could see through the gloom, but to her horror she realized that what she had taken for a splintered bit of the plank of one was really a black arrow embedded into the side. Several more sported such grim accessories, but she had no way to know how deep the heads had sunk, or if the dwarves inside still lived. If she opened the lids now—not that she could without great effort, or at least some hearty stick to pry the tops away—they would surely take on water and sink before they even cleared the forest, and if the Company _were_ injured, what could she do in this position to help them? She was as helpless as the captive dwarrow, clinging for all her worth to the top of a bobbing block of hollow wood and praying an orc didn’t make an easy target of her while they were standing still…

Though… why _were_ they standing still? The water still was racing past around her toes and ankles, but the barrels were jostling, bobbing in place, wedged tight against…! Ah! She could just make out, the narrow tunnel they had collected in was barred on the far side by a metal grate, trapping them all in place where the elves would be able to gather them back up once the orcs were dealt with. Even now one of the elves, all clad in silvered armor that caught what light there was like a slender moon, bent down to reach for her where she was pressed between the top of the barrel and the stone passage, her command of “ _Tolo hi!_ ” echoing in the small space.

With her wet hands Bilba had little grip on the soaked wood of the barrel, and though she cried back, “ _Baw! Leithio nin!_ ” there was little much she could do to keep from being yanked from her perch. Her head scraped roughly against the masonry of the tunnel as the elf drew her forth, a strong grip on the back of her waistcoat—which she thought to shed but that it held the ring in its pocket!—hauling her out again into the wild center of the conflict.

“Our King has need of you to return, please. _Dandolo na nin_ , my lady.” The elf immediately moved to sling her over her shoulder, but perhaps the elves had never encountered a hobbit, or at least they had never felt the smarting kick of their tough feet when desperate. A swift swing of the left one freed Bilba from the elf’s grasp, the poor elf left doubled over and wheezing for breath, for Bilba’s foot had drove into the softer gap between the elven armor below the breastplate and stolen her breath away. Bilba herself flopped onto the terrace of the stone watchpost like a fish that had been landed, instantly trying to scramble to her feet and dodge out of any more grabbing hands. In a breath her sharp and clever eyes caught the swarming deeper darkness of the encroaching orc hordes—ten, twenty, fifty!—far more than she had imagined, though the elves were carving through them with an unearthly grace and ease.

Still the orcs seemed singularly fixated upon the barrels—the dwarves, her friends, Thorin most likely—and charged towards them with reckless abandon, their eyes reflecting luminously in the dark and two more taking the place of each of them that fell. One, a great mangled and wretched thing, with a wild stare and a shock of tangled, perhaps-ruddy hair poking from between the metal plates that had been grafted to its head, found her with its hungry stare, and with a screeching bellow drove the warg it rode toward where she stood, an unarmed, unarmored, tiny and helpless target. Her hands fumbled wildly at the pocket of her vest, ripping the button nearly off as she scrabbled for the ring, desperate to hide, to escape its notice—!

With a sudden lunge the elf she had kicked sprang up, her glittering blade taking the warg in the chest and sending its rider spilling onto the stonework at her feet. “You shall not have her!” the warrior warned both the orc now sprawled at her feet and those beyond the river. The one below twisted around, snarling up at her before a second slice took its head from its shoulders. With a renewed wariness the elven huntress turned her gaze towards Bilba, and the hobbit lass shrank back, crying out “Please, _annon allen_! But I, _cí dadwenithon_ … I _cannot_ go back. Not yet!” She tugged her hand back from in her pocket and skittered up the stone stairs of the watchpost, hastily rebuttoning the ring away as she ran and ducking past a dueling trio—two orcs being held at bay by another lone elf—and making for the stone bridge that ran over the tunnel where the Company’s barrels remained trapped in place.

A long wooden pole thrust out of the stone ahead of her, a lever of some kind she realized in the split second it took her to reach it. For the gate below? _Makes sense, really, all you’ve got to do is give it a tug, Bilba old girl, come on now, you can—!!_ An arrow sank into the stone mere inches from where she stood, the almost mottled-looking head shattering on contact and leaving wicked shards dusted invisibly over the area and a few caught in the hair atop her feet. Her time to talk herself into it was well and truly up now, and she flung herself at the lever, the wind escaping her in a sharp breath as it held firm… and then slowly gave beneath her slight weight, clicking into place.

Across the river she could see the orc that had shot for her nocking another arrow; he was tall, unnaturally so for an orc, pale and wicked looking, though less so than Azog himself had been. From what little she could make out, he looked as if some great beast had gnawed upon his head, leaving it mangled and flattened on one side, what must have been gaps or grooves in his skull covered over or filled in with grimy metal, and beneath it, one sickly, glazed eye that seemed to be leaking milkily down his face as he leered at her.

With almost cruel slowness the orc raised his bow, sighting towards her with utter certainty in his aim despite the darkness around them. There was nowhere she could run, but she could throw herself back in the river perhaps if she were quick enough. Already the orcs were pushing past the elves, swarming down to the water line to where the barrels bobbed. She would be as dead there as where she stood, and the dwarves with her, it seemed… But then, from below, a deep noise sounded: a rumbling _boom_ , and then fainter, barely to be heard over the noise of combat and the roaring water, the rhythmic clanking of reeling chains. _The gate!_ A wooden scraping heralded the barrels’ departure, the swift flowing current taking them through the sluice and over the waterfall beyond in a great rush, the tide of the current pulling more than one orc off their feet, to drown or flounder over the rocks with them.

Across the way, the tall orc scowled, fuming as he watched as the dwarves escape yet again… and then turned his gaze back to the hobbit. The one who had _freed_ them. And who was being left behind. An easy enough target, he surely thought, raising his great black bow…

With all the strength left in her limbs, Bilba threw herself towards the edge of the watchpost, her scraped and roughened palms catching and bloodying further on the low retaining wall of stone. She heard the twang of a shot, and clenched herself tight against the impact of the loosed arrow, her teeth grinding in fearful anticipation of the pain even as she soared through the open air over the waterfall… But none came. Perhaps the shot had gone wide, or perhaps the elves had cut the orc down with an arrow of their own. She had no way to know, and little time to wonder as she opened her eyes just long enough to see the frothing, heaving falls and the dark bobbing cork-shapes of the barrels come rushing up to meet her.

* * *

The orcs had crossed the river, swarming with their spider allies—a terrifying thought, for even the orcs usually fell prey to the hunger of Ungoliant’s spawn—and like a crashing black wave come rushing nearly to the gates of the Elvenking’s Halls, leaving the abandoned fire pits and feasting tables and dancing clearings empty and torn, turf ripped up and wood splintered in their wake. For a time out of time the elves had fought to push them back, a whirlwind of blades and bolts that tore through the fiends’ mottled, diseased flesh to keep them from entering the stronghold or cutting down those who fled, unable to defend themselves—minutes felt like hours, and also no time at all in the heat of battle. Thankfully, despite the enemy’s unusual numbers, not a single elf had yet to fall or even be wounded. Thranduil’s people fought with a merciless and righteous fury, and a hatred for the dark creatures that gave strength to their blows. As a point of inspiration, their king had come and now battled at their sides—foremost among them, as fierce and fiercer than any, with a cold, almost desperate fire dancing in his eyes as he drove his blade through the heart of yet another beast.

Their foes’ corpses piled lay around the porch now, splatters of black and brackish blood slicking the stone arch of the bridge and leaving macabre whorls upon the towering pillars nearer to the massive doors, all glittering beneath the swaying festival lights. The tide of them had seemed not endless, but certainly more than the elves had expected by far, and it had at last begun to stem, allowing Thranduil with a cry to lead his soldiers forward onto the far bank. Whatever it was that had whipped them into such a mad fury—and he felt terribly certain that he knew the cause—seemed to have either fled from them, leaving their spirits to fail and fear the fair flash of elven steel, scattering and tripping over each other as they were driven briefly back across the ramp and into the the forest—or else now be driving them in another direction, a far more distressing thought. With grim determination that almost bordered on satisfaction the elves ran them down where they found them—the orcs were their most hated enemies of old, and there were few indeed among their kind who felt any sort of regret for the slaying of them. Such foul twisted perversions of Morgoth’s creation deserved little more than a swift release from their tormented existence.

Still, as Thranduil withdrew his blade from the throat of one which had been foolish enough to rush him, and lucky (or unlucky, perhaps) enough to dart past the reach of the silver-armored guards who fought near to him, he could not hold back the hiss of rage that snaked out through his body. There was a _reason_ the orcs had swarmed now, swarmed here where they had feared to dare before. Perhaps they had not come to tear down his halls, though many of them he knew would delight in doing so, given the chance—no, he suspected that their mission was far more important, far more dreadful to consider.

Quick as a flash of lightning he spun, sword arcing out to cleave the head from another beast’s shoulders, and in the same swooping arc dipped his blade to relieve a great hairy brown spider of the ends of three of its legs. His eyes darted across the field of battle to where the orcs now were retreating, the thick tangles of brush and breaklines of the trees over the banks hiding nothing from his sight even now in moonless midnight—he knew these lands better than any other creature living, and they kept nothing from him. There… _there_! Down along the path of the river, where it curved sharply before carving low into the stone hillside to run under their home, he saw movement. The main of the enemy’s numbers were not in retreat at all, but simply changing course; they were abandoning some of their fighters here to stall the elves so that the rest might surge past and overwhelm those standing watch further down the river… and to retrieve what they had been set loose to find.

His frantic heart, already racing, seemed to shudder. As if a beat had been skipped, gone missing in his furious terror. Could it truly be the ring which they sought? Did they know…? If what he feared was true, they would fight until they were all of them dead, or until they found it and then could take it to its master! A swirl of panic lit in the Elvenking as he watched their numbers flow down the path and to the east, around the base of the mountain fortress, towards where it had gone—towards _her_. He knew as certainly as he knew his own name, if the orcs found the halfling with the ring on her person… they would kill her. Or worse, she would be brought before the dark lord as well, and then she would undoubtedly wish that she _had_ perished. His soul spasmed at the thought, and for an instant of time he could not help but let the battle slip away, to seek out that tenuous thread that linked them, bound their essence together… and felt a bolt of dread that was not his own blaze up the line of it, clutching at his lungs with icy talons and leaving him winded by the strength of it before it faded back to a low haze.

A rush of relief was on its heels a moment later, of his own making and dulling the edge of what of her fear he’d felt, and then after it came a surge of greater anger and guilt. All around him the noise of combat still rang out—only a moment or two had passed while he stood still and unmindful, unguarded, but thankfully the wicked darting lance of his sword’s tip had spilled enough black blood that he had been afforded a wide berth by the foes that remained. Now he strode forward with renewed determination, a blow crashing down to split an unwary orc from shoulder to hip, his stride carrying him past before it even hit the forest floor. This was no time to be distracted: nothing should be more important, nothing _was_ more important than recovering the ring, than keeping it from the dark lord’s clutches… _nothing_ , he demanded of himself.

And yet he could no more push away the need to find the halfling, to see her safe and sound and spared from such a wicked fate than he could have rejected the bond when first it appeared within him long ago. The storm cloud of near-violent want to find the ring, to see it destroyed as ought to have been done an Age ago was split by the sunshine-flash of the memory of her golden curls; his black despair that once more Sauron would rise if the ring was lost again or taken, eclipsed by the thought of her summer-sky blue eyes, flecked with glittering starlight.

No… he could not let himself lose them, not _either_ of them, it seemed.

The orcs were surging further down the river now, and his sharp ears cold make out the distant sounds of combat, of elven shouts and the gurgle of dying spiders over the crash of the further waterfalls. There was no more time to consider what must be done, no time to waste or else all might be lost. With a great roar he swept forward, charging once more into the battle. He thundered his rage, both at his enemies and at himself and the weakness of his own heart as he went, a battle-cry that drew his people to his side, their arrows to clear the way and their blades to guard his back. “ _Aphado nin! Hain dago! Gurth an glamhoth!_ ” His words shook the very leaves from the trees as their forces drove anew into the Shadow’s ranks, and the fury of the elves was soon mingled with the death-cries of their enemies.

He would get there in time. It… she… _they_ would not be lost again. Beneath his breath as he strove ahead, Thranduil let slip a desperate plea, “ _Berio ven… berio e…_ ”

* * *

The bulk of the orc forces around the watchpost were still being determinedly held at bay by the time Thranduil and his soldiers arrived. It had taken longer than he had liked to clear a path around the edge of the hill his Halls lay under—the foul things had fought back every step of the way, their frenzied and desperate attacks under the cover of night, and a suspicious lack of fear giving their weaker arms and armor unusual strength. A dark force drove them to their limits, but thankfully that still left them unable to match the elves’ capabilities here within their own domain.

It had also become clear that while the spiders and wargs and other beastly creatures all bit and slashed and went after the elves that harried them with feral, hateful delight, breaching the Halls and ravaging the elves people within was indeed not their goal. As Thranduil had fought his way around the hill a call had gone up, the grating language of the orcs, Black Speech, pricking at their ears and stoking the elves’ anger higher to hear it beneath their own forest’s trees. “ _Tud-dad nu!_ ” it came, “Down the river, _now_ , maggots! After them!” Yes, it seemed that though sacking the elven holdout would have been a treat to tantalize any foul being, it was the treasure that was—or had been, until now—hidden away within which they sought. Loathe as he was to consider it, Thranduil was forced to accept that the Enemy knew his ring had been found.

Still, many of the orcs, base and nearly brainless creatures as they were, were slow to give up the fight. Those hindmost in the pack even seemed to grow more vicious and troublesome… and to Thranduil’s fury he realized they were again buying time, holding back the second arm of his forces to give those ahead a chance to hunt unhindered. It would take time to carve through them—less time than it would take men or dwarves to do so, perhaps, but time nonetheless—and for every wasted second the orcs gained ground on their quarry, if it had not already been found.

As he fought, Thranduil called out over the din, summoning to his side the keeper of the watchpost. He’d commanded the river gate be shut, meaning to collect his prisoners from their ‘ships’ after they were caught by the iron bars, but now that same barricade would work to his enemy’s favor, he feared. The watchleader had been ordered to take the hobbit first and above all else, however, and with luck perhaps would have had time to reach her… It was all he could do to hope.

It was some moments before the elf he sought was able to fight her way to him. Scuffs and dings marred her armor in places, and she wore a face of sharp displeasure in the gloom—but not the outright despair he would have expected if her report contained the theft of his prisoners by the orcs. “My King—the halfling, forgive me. She escaped my grasp, and opened the gate to free the dwarves. The orcs’ numbers grew too numerous before I could stop her again, and she… leapt over the falls into the river after the barrels as they fired upon us. I saw her surface at the base a moment later—” she hurried on, the brief loo of wild fear on her king’s face unsettling even more than the orcs had been. “She seemed unharmed, though the current bore them from my sight even as these wretches regrouped.”

As if to punctuate that point, one of the wargs, which had crept unnoticed through the shadow of a fallen tree and up its length to where it hung nearly overhead of the Elvenking sprang suddenly from cover. Its yellowed and jagged teeth were bared between its black lips, a vicious, bloodthirsty snarl shaking from its chest as it lunged. No fewer than five arrows found it, snatching the life from the beast before it went more than a yard, but still it was a close call, and Thranduil scowled down at the creature’s torn body where it lay. In the time it had taken the elves to put it down, brief a moment as it had been, several of its allies—with orcs still on their backs—had taken flight, racing away down along the river with their hunting horns blaring.

“After them!” Thranduil cried, though he knew not even the swiftest elf on foot could match a warg in a full sprint for long. But before the elves took a single step however, a wall of foes, those left behind for lack of mounts or already injured too greatly to run, swarmed forth to bar the way between the backs of the fleeing orcs and their pursuers. Another diversion, another delay… but this time it was not one the elves could ignore or simply go around. The orcs and their allies fought with abandon, all but throwing themselves upon the swords of the woodland’s guardians in desperation to hold them back. They traded their lives for wounding blows, and at last the ruby red of elven blood began to mingle on the leaves and stone of the forest floor with the pools of sickly black bile of the orcs and the fetid green ichor of the spiders, turning all a muddy brown in the blue of night. If Thranduil sought to send any of his warriors in flight after the halfling, he knew the rest would suffer, may even perish against the tide of foes before reinforcements arrived—but if he did not, it well could be that the ring and the one who carried it would find themselves in great danger before he had a chance to save them both. Both choices wracked the Elvenking with furious indecision, his ire clear in the vicious strokes of his sword upon his enemies.

He had sworn to never endanger his people again, to never risk their lives needlessly. He was their king, their protector and provider… but to let the ring ( _the hobbit_ , his heart insisted, _you cannot lose her as well_ ) escape again… It was the sole reason evil yet remained within the world. Every day it was left undestroyed was one more day of pain and suffering in the long dark of an unearned and unending wintertime of life and hope.

A thundering trumpet rang out then, far sweeter and more beloved than the garish hunting blasts of the orcs, a long silver pealing note that hung between the trees like mist… and then shattered in a spray as ten, twenty, thirty arrows sprang forth from the bows of the elves—a second front that had moved up along the orcs’ opposite flank between the trees to strike unseen. Thranduil could not help but grin, grim and predatory at how the tide had turned, his eyes scanning the opposite arm of his people’s army for what general or captain had guided them into such a maneuver. He caught a flash of familiar golden hair among their ranks, and auburn-red beside it—Legolas, and Tauriel with him as well. With his son’s forces joined in battle, the elves’ situation was less pressed. Without a moment of hesitation Thranduil spun, blade cleaving the sword-arm from an on-rushing orc, and reached out to grab hold of one of his own warriors, the same elf who had been standing guard at the watchpost, who knew the sight of the halfling already.

“You! Take a party of ten after the orcs down the river. Cut them down if you can, and see to our _guests_. Do not let the halfling escape again!” It was half plea, half threat, and he thrust her back away from him before she could respond, whirling to parry a blow, knocking the foe away and then running the monster through with a wet squelch. By the time he looked back she was gone, she and several more beside, racing along the night-darkened banks of the river into the distance.

They would find the halfling. Find the ring. They would be alright, and his people would be safe. Those thoughts burned brighter than any star in Thranduil’s mind as he once more threw himself into the fray.

* * *

**_TA2941, September 24_ **

The barrel beneath her gave a slight shudder as it scraped over the bottom of the river for a moment. It was enough to jolt Bilba back to her senses—not that she’d been totally oblivious, but the shackles of exhaustion had only grown heavier after her perilous plunge over the falls, and she had never felt quite as much deep longing for her little feather-stuffed bed back in Bag End in Hobbiton. She’d dove over the edge of the watchpost in desperation, and at the time the thought that getting a bit battered on the rocks couldn’t be near as bad as being stuck full of filthy orc arrows. As she’d fallen however, she’d really rather changed her mind, and for the one, two, perhaps three seconds where she’d been airborne, Bilba’d rather regretted not just letting the elf guardswoman take her back to her king. At least there, with all the confusion and strange desires her heart had thrust upon her in Thranduil’s presence, and the knowledge that he’d seen the ring, must somehow now what it was and covet it… well, at least there she would have been allowed to have a late dinner, most likely, and a nap.

Oh yes, she really was quite ready to be done with all of this adventuring, if only for a little while… though she’d made her choice, and now she supposed there was still rather a long way to go yet before she could let herself catch a single wink of well-earned sleep.

With a soft grunt Bilba levered herself up as much as she could without setting the barrel to rolling or dunking her back into the river, peering back up the banks the way they’d come for any signs of movement through the gloom. It was still quite dark out, though she’d begun to see a bit of the beginnings of a sunrise—some time off yet, but heartening all the same—through the trees. She’d lost all track of how far they’d drifted, or for how long, though the hints of light in the sky spoke of hours spent upon the water. Whatever the outcome of the battle between the elves and the orcs (and she of course hoped only that the elves had come out the victors—for all that they had imprisoned the dwarves, and their king left her heart racing for some reason she refused to face, they were a good people) neither side had come after them, or at least not with the speed to keep up.

The river’d run far swifter down beyond the waterfall, and it’d only been luck that one of the barrels had snagged near the foot of it long enough for her to pull herself onto the slick wet surface before they all could be swept away. The fall had been terrifying, but one of the Valar must have had an eye upon her, for she’d missed every rock at the bottom, plunging into the deep water instead. The churning force of the rapids was dangerous as well, and she would have been held down, drowned there perhaps by the thundering water, if not for another bit of chance. A moment later the body of one of the spiders, slain and fallen into the stream, had come splashing down nearly atop her, and the jolt of it was enough to push her out of the pool’s snare and come bobbing and gasping to the dark surface of the water.

She’d hauled herself up on the barrel when she’d spotted it, gasping and limp, dripping wet and weary, and dragged a hand across her breast to where the ring remained snugly buttoned into her pocket. Her racing heart at once began to slow, and she’d been more than ready to give herself over to whatever fate lay ahead of her if it meant just a moment of peace, of not having to run or dodge or _think._  Now, with miles and hours behind them (and hopefully between them and the terrible monsters of the forest) Bilba began to feel her senses clear again, her tired mind stirring back to sluggish but determined life. She shifted again atop the barrel, gripping the rim tight with a “Woah…!” as it bobbled slightly below her, steadying herself and finding a way to hold on that left her almost fully out of the water (though still nothing like comfortable).

“I certainly hope this night’s gone better for you lot than for me,” she sighed, to the dwarf in the barrel, to the Company as a whole, and to no one really at all. She’d been so busy with the escape and then her own exhaustion that she hadn’t really had the time to worry after the dwarves… and now that she thought about it, she quickly turned about as much as she could to count the barrels floating merrily alongside the one she rode. _Nine, ten, eleven, twelve…?_ A flash of panic, but then she recalled the one beneath her own self, and felt rather silly about the whole thing—she really did need a good night’s sleep.

Several of the barrels still had arrows jutting from their sides, the broken shafts prickling like thorns from the wood, and the sight reminded her of the danger they’d all been in. It was a very real possibility that one or more of her friends had been injured… but, as before, there was little she could do about it now. Until they drifted ashore, she would just have to wait, and rely upon dwarven constitution (and stubbornness) to see them through any wounds they’d sustained.

Ahead the curtain of the trees began to part, the thick trunks growing more slender and spaced further apart to let the growing light filter through. Dawn in the forest, here where it was untainted and wrapped in the splendor of the autumn colors, was not a sight to be missed. Bilba drank it all in as they floated along, her sharp ears picking up the faint distant sound of birdsong and a quiet breeze through the branches. The forest peeled back from where it had hovered near the banks, and the deep, cutting river slowly broadened into a more lazy, shallow flow around rounded stones. The smell of moss and mulching leaves gave way more and more to the scent of fish, and a rattling snarl of hunger boomed from Bilba’s stomach at the thought of lemon-drizzled trout, wrapped in leaves and baked, complete with a slice of hearty buttered bread and greens, fingerling potatoes with pepper and salt and drizzled in oil… a slender, elven hand reaching out to pass her a flute of crisp white wine, chilled to match the icy blue eyes she imagined herself gazing into…

She sighed and pushed the creeping thought away, shaking her head and tucking her chin against her chest to hide beneath her matted curls. Exhaustion and fear had held the keening, cutting desire to go back the way she’d come, to run back into the arms of the one who’d imprisoned her friends at bay… but now that the world was bright and calm once more, it came surging back, leaving her feeling just as confused and desolate as she’d felt before. She had been sure, so very sure that once she’d escaped the forest the enchantment—which she told herself again it must be, worked on her by the Elvenking to turn her to his side, or to let him take the ring—would have worn off, and things would have returned to normal again. That her heart would stop racing at the thought of him, her dreams would return to being of the Shire, or Rivendell, or anywhere else the great wide world, and not the winding hallways beneath his hill, the little gardens and golden lamps. That what promises she’d made to aid the dwarves would again mean more to her than the pounding ache to sooth Thranduil’s woes, and tell him everything that had befallen her…

Instead, as the barrels rounded a gentle bend in the river to reveal the glittering lake far, far ahead, and with the edge of the forest now easily ten, twelve, fifteen miles behind… she found that nothing at all had changed. Her heart was still as lost and distant-longing as it had been within the Woodland Realm, stolen by the Elvenking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athelas - AKA Kingsfoil, is very useful for healing… though that usefulness has been forgotten in some regions of Middle Earth. When dried and crushed in hot water it is refreshing, it clears and calms the mind and strengthens those smelling it. It also has a scent that is unique to who smells the herb.
> 
> Mallos - In the fields of Lebennin near the delta of the River Anduin, there grew the flowers that Grey-elves named Mallos, the "gold-snow". The blooms are fair and never-fading, and in Elven songs were linked to golden bells calling the Elves to the Western Sea. It has no canonical healing properties, but I ran with the idea that the blooms were resilient and connected to the draw of the elves to the West, and made them a sort of replacement treatment to fulfill Belladonna’s need to ‘go West’ and be with Bungo again.
> 
> Body and soul are both part of healing in Middle Earth and some maladies need treatment to both sides to be effective. Healing of the spirit can be both literally repairing the soul, and also overcoming despair with hope, which is a theme through most of Tolkien’s works. Words, touch, scent, and song all play a factor in healing hearts and spirits, as shown by:  
> Aragorn’s treatment of Frodo’s Morgul wound—"…and taking the dagger-hilt laid it on his knees, and he sang over it a slow song in a strange tongue. Then… he turned to Frodo and in a soft tone spoke words the others could not catch… He crushed a leaf in his fingers, and it gave out a sweet and pungent fragrance… [it] was refreshing, and those that were unhurt felt their minds calmed and cleared. The herb had also some power over the wound, for Frodo felt the pain and also the sense of frozen cold lessen in his side” (“The Flight to the Ford”, LotR: FotR)  
> Aragorn’s healing of Éowyn—"'Then Aragorn… called her softly, saying: ‘Éowyn Éomund's daughter, awake! For your enemy has passed away!' She did not stir, but now she began again to breathe deeply, so that her breast rose and fell beneath the white linen of the sheet… 'Awake, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan!' said Aragorn again, and he took her right hand in his and felt it warm with life returning. 'Awake! The shadow is gone and all darkness is washed clean!' Then he laid her hand in Éomer's and stepped away. 'Call her!' he said… 'Éowyn, Éowyn!' cried Éomer amid his tears. But she opened her eyes and said: 'Éomer! What joy is this? For they said that you were slain. Nay, but that was only the dark voices in my dream. How long have I been dreaming?'” (“The Houses of Healing”, LotR: RotK)  
> Lúthien's healing of Beren—"Therewith the smart [Huan] swift allayed, while Luthien murmuring in the shade the staunching song, that Elvish wives long years had sung in those sad lives of war and weapons, wove o'er him… Watchful bending o'er him wakes a maiden fair; his thirst she slakes, his brow caresses, and softly croons a song more potent than in runes or leeches' lore hath since been writ.” (“Lay of Leithian”, Lays of Beleriand)
> 
> This chapter runs concurrent with the last one, obviously. It always bugged me that Sauron fleeing Dol Guldur was minimized in the books/movies. Like no one was worried or felt the big being of evil fly off? With Bilba linked more directly to the ring/Sauron, and Thranduil to him through her, it made more sense to me that his retreat would be felt on _some_ level. Thranduil's glamour fails and his scars appear at the sound of Sauron’s cry, loosely based on how wounds inflicted by Morgul weapons flare up again, and how the cry of the Nazgul can affect people. Seeing them really struck a note in Bilba—she (Mindonel) was with him when he was injured originally after all. 
> 
> Sauron’s sent a fairly hefty number of orcs after the dwarves/Bilba this time around—he’s stronger than at this time in the movies and book, more alert, and probably a bit more aggressive, obviously. Things are moving quickly, but how it might alter events downstream (in terms of time and location) is yet to be seen.
> 
> Daro! Avo garo, perian! - “Stop! Don’t do (it), halfling!”  
> Lasto beth lammen! - “Hear me!”; literally “Hear the words of my tongue!”  
> Estelio enni, perian, mel— - “Trust in me, halfling, [my] lo—”  
> An ngell nîn. - “Please.”; literally “For my happiness/joy”  
> Tolo ar nin. - “Come with me.”  
> Holo in-annon! - “Shut the gate!”  
> Naugrim - dwarves; literally “stunted people”.  
> Tolo hi! - “Come now!”  
> Leithio nin! - “No! Release me!”  
> Dandolo na nin. - “Come back with me.”  
> Annon allen! - “Thank you!”; literally, “I give thanks to you!” This neologism is a bit unusual, and varies from “hannon le”, which is used in the LotR trilogy. You can read more about it here.  
> Cí dadwenithon… - “If I go back…”  
> Aphado nin! Hain dago! Gurth an glamhoth! - “Follow me! Death to the din-horde!”  
> Berio ven… berio e… - “Protect us… protect her…”  
> Tud-dad nu! - “Follow me!” in Black Speech


End file.
